


Prelude to A Clash of Vows

by EndDragon



Series: A Series of Broken Promises [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Prelude to a Jonerys Fic, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-10 19:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndDragon/pseuds/EndDragon
Summary: This starts at the Trident and will end shortly after the Greyjoy Rebellion.Rhaegar marches at the head of the loyalist host tasked with crushing Robert's Rebellion, the Last Dragon only concerned with putting this unrest to an end so he can return south, and the love that awaits him there. Things never go as they're supposed to and he finds himself grasping for what it means to be King of the Seven Kingdoms.(I am terrible with summaries, this should be 8 chapters serving as to how the world changed with Rhaegar as King instead of Robert, this is a part of a series that's focused on a Jon and Dany relationship. Again, terrible at summaries. Forgive me.)





	1. The Dragon of the Trident

**Author's Note:**

> Commanding the loyalist host to battle at the Trident against the entire might of the rebellion, Rhaegar looks to end the conflict once and for all.

* * *

_**Prelude to A Clash of Vows**  _

_**A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter One: The Dragon of the Trident**

* * *

**Rhaegar I**

* * *

It was there, just before the great flowing river called the Trident split in three did Rhaegar Targaryen watch as the forces loyal to his father and House clash against the united might of House Baratheon, Stark, Tully, and Arryn. The lush, green earth stemming from the veins of the river lay stained with the red of flowing blood, the once tranquil landscape marred by the sounds of men's cries and the clanking of clashing steel. The cloudless blue sky above blotted out by the exchange of arrows sailing back and forth, a countless number of those projectiles finding their mark on unsuspecting troops. Countless lives spent in the name of monarchy and rebellion. It was there, near the rushing waters of the ford, did the Prince of Dragonstone spot the antler mounted helm of Robert Baratheon, the man in which the uprising that sought to end the Targaryen dynasty had come to be named for.

Blow after blow with the weighted Warhammer in the man's grip, Rhaegar watched with a pained heart as men under his command fell at the feet of the Stormlander he had scorned. There was an opportunity present, a gap in the ranks of both armies in which the Crown Prince could ride out and meet his foe. It was there, that his mind became plagued with thoughts of ending the civil war that had torn the Seven Kingdom's in two, could he continue to sit idly by as he had done when the rebellion first broke out, watching in hiding as lives were lost on behalf of his desire for love, a love that awaited him in the south, a babe in her belly, the third head to the dragon.

Afterall, it had been his desire for something more than his arranged marriage to Elia that had caused this conflict, and though it would be ignorant of him to not acknowledge the contribution made by his fathers madness to the discontent of the rebel Kingdom's, Rhaegar knew then that to let this battle carry on any longer would be an act of cowardice on his part, how could he truly be a King without making sacrifice, how could he let thousands of men perish for him without willing to fight himself.

Black steel gauntlet reaching to his side, Rhaegar drew his sword from its sheath, freshly oiled and sharpened, the slender steel blade with its ornate dragon winged hilt glittered against the sunlight. Drawing a calming breath to settle his nerves after observing Robert Baratheon slay yet another man with a single crushing blow, Rhaegar dug his heels deep into the side of his steed, the black destrier beneath him taking off at a gallop, dirt, and clumps of grass tossed up in the wake of its trampling hoofs. Passing through the gap of men-at-arms and flying banners of the House's that continued to swear fealty, he rode into a clearing on the side of the ford his host still held, just feet away across the bristling water hunched a blood-soaked, Robert Baratheon, the solid young man's black beard hanging out from under his antler mounted helm, the darks of his eyes glinting with rage and a lust for vengeance.

"Rhaegar you cad, may the Gods damn you to the Seven Hells!" Shouted Robert across the river, his shoulders shaking with deep breaths as he stalked forward into the river, the crystal liquid splashing up at every heavy footstep he made.

Atop a horse and lance in hand, Rhaegar knew he was unmatched, but on foot with a sword, Baratheon stood the greater odds of being the victor with his mighty Warhammer. He eyed the hulking weapon of war warily, knowing then that his best chance to succeed was to sally forth on back of horse and cut Robert down, the Stormlander would surely be to slow with his Warhammer to sweep him off his steed, and yet despite the belief he would win, there was something within him that made him believe to engage the man as such would be a dishonor to himself, his House, and his opponent. In the end, he had wronged Robert Baratheon, he had taken the man's betrothed, whether it was in the circumstances many believed he had or not, Lyanna Stark was the Black Stag's. He owed Robert an equal footing in combat if nothing else.

Black armor embedded with precious stones and rubies in the form of his House's three-headed dragon, Rhaegar slipped from the saddle of his destrier. The sounds of clashing swords and yelps of pain surrounded him as he stalked into the cold waters of the ford. Eyes locked with Robert's, time seemed to slow as they trudged through the current towards one another.

Water breaking against their knees as they waded through the stream, Robert struck first with a strong swing of his Warhammer at Rhaegar's head, no doubt from the many sleepless nights he had envisioned murdering the man who had taken the woman he professed to love. Yet as quick of a swing the blunt weapon was, it was still tardy in it's arrival and Rhaegar ducked the steel block, using the lapse of time Robert needed to swing again, the Crown Prince of Dragonstone swiped up with his sword, the sharpened blade cutting through the muscle and flesh of Baratheon's right bicep, blood spraying out like a mist from the open wound.

A roar tore out from Baratheon's throat, despite landing the successful gash, Rhaegar held back from continuing the attack, opting to shift his feet for a better stance. No matter how much the river restricted his movement, he knew Baratheon wasn't a warrior to take lightly, and footwork would be his key to victory. It would be his agility against Baratheon's brute strength.

Calculating his opponents next strike, Rhaegar watched as Robert winced from his newly inflicted wound, his right arm going to hang numb at his side, blood trickling down the open cut to drip off the tip of his fingers, his Warhammer clutched solely in the clasp of his left hand. Seeing Robert's unguarded torso open for attack, Rhaegar brought both hands to the hilt of his sword and raised it above his head, ready to deliver the killing blow. Unexpectedly, or having underestimated his opponent, the strength of Robert's youth had yet to leave the burly man's body as he swung one-handed with his Warhammer, the solid force of which made contact against the side of Rhaegar's black breastplate, the dark armour crumpling under the impact, followed by the sickening sound of breaking bone.

Grunting at the astonishing pain that shot from his ribs, Rhaegar brought his sword down in haste, the blade glancing off Robert's bronze spaulder with a clank. Clenching one eye closed as he gathered his breath through the excruciating pain it caused him, Rhaegar staggered back as Robert's Warhammer came swooshing at him once more, barely dodging the blow.

Beneath his black, dragon-winged helm he saw a look in Baratheon's eyes, recognizing it immediately for what it was, _murderous_ , the man smelled blood from the injury he had inflicted to Rhaegar's side and he looked obviously intent to finish the Prince off. _Agility, move your feet!_ Grimacing as he swayed away from another one-handed swing, Rhaegar danced in a panicked, flurry jig as one-handed swing after another came at him, each one desperate to make its mark. Dodging and weaving each of Baratheon's flurried blows, Rhaegar felt himself stumble upon the uneven shallows of the river bottom, the loss of balance combined with the rush of free-flowing water sent him tumbling down on his rear so his shoulders came just above the surface. Wading in the current, an enraged Robert Baratheon stalked forward clutching his Warhammer firmly in his left hand, towering over him, heavy breaths of exerted effort rushing from his flared nostrils.

"You stole her from me!" Shouted Robert, spittle flying from his mouth as he glared down at him.

Knowing these could very well be his last living moments, Rhaegar shook his dragon winged helm, defiant to let the man believe he was as callous as he thought him to be. _"She loves me, Baratheon, not you, never you!"_

"Liar, filthy fucking liar!" Roared Robert, the hand gripping the staff of his weapon tightened like a constricting snake, his knuckles turning a ghostly white as he raised the weapon overhead, a moment later he brought his Warhammer down in an overarching swing.

Seeing the spiked block of steel in its trajectory toward him, Rhaegar sprung out from beneath the water, his sword stabbing out at the tendons of Roberts left knee, a shriek of pain ripping out from the Black Stag as the swift strike caught him off guard. Crippling him from his stance, the large Stormlander dropped from his feet before his hammer could make the acquaintance of Rhaegar's head. Kneeling in the water as his weight buckled the support of his one unhindered leg, Robert's jaw flapped open and closed as Rhaegar retook his standing, the Crown Prince clutching his sword in one hand while the other tentatively nursed his bruised and broken side, the sable armour crinkled from Robert's hit.

Around them the battle seemed to still, the men under the banner of the stag lowering their weapons, visible shock and surprise upon their faces as they viewed their kneeling Lord, the waters around him murky with a red tinge as blood seeped from his wounds. The sounds of horns blew out over the battlefield as the mustered force of crownland troops began to cheer and chant Rhaegar's name, subsequently, men of the rebel force began to fallback, some even going so far as to drop their weapons entirely and flee. However, while as joyous as it was to see the rebel host break and scatter, the Prince of Dragonstone knew the war wasn't finished until the others rebel Lord's found themselves in positions similar to that of Robert, afterall the Lord of the Stormland's was just one head of the four House rebellious snake.

Slowly, regaining his composure, Rhaegar took notice as the chants of his name started to morph into something much more sinister.

 _"Kill the Stag! Kill the traitor!"_ called his men, their voices growing louder.

_"Off with his head!"_

_"Death to Baratheon!"_

_"Kill the rebel!"_

As Lyanna's opinionated word of the man echoed in his head, reminding him of how much she despised having been betrothed to the man at his feet, Rhaegar couldn't bring himself to end the man on that merit alone, nor could he bear to end the man based on the jeers of his bannermen. "Submit, Baratheon! It's finished, your rebellion is over. Submit to me and I'll allow you to take the black at the Wall."

Scowling even as he struggled to stand, Robert, spat to the waters that brushed up against him. "Take my head, go on then. I'll haunt you in your dreams, you coward!"

Rhaegar sighed, although he had looked to end the rebellion, it did not sit well with him that the devastating end he'd give to the uprising would be one from a position looking down. He'd have much preferred to have killed the man when they fought, not after as his enemy crouched wounded, bearing the flow of bristling cold water. Still, the man refused his leniency, and it could not go unanswered. Raising his sword, he projected the swing of his steel at the girth of Robert's neck, he attempted two hands at first, but the damage caused by Baratheon's Warhammer to his ribs caused him to flinch, scowling at the pain. Resorting to the one hand instead, he feared he didn't hold enough strength to give the man a single, clean cut. Baratheon's neck was beefy, and -though hidden beneath his armor- supported by large lumps of muscle on either side of his shoulders.

Tip sparkling off the rays of the mid-day sun, Rhaegar willed himself to carry on with what he knew must needed be done. "Robert of the House Baratheon, I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Crown Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the throne sentence you to death on the charge of treason. What last words have you?"

"Get on with it!" Snarled Robert, the man hung his head forward, showcasing his bare neck.

Rhaegar clenched his eyes as he brought down his sword, the pain in his side aflame from the fluid motion of his swing, the blade catching halfway through Baratheon's meaty neck, the heavy antlered helm letting his head hang half attached at an unnatural angle. Bile rising up as he opened his eyes to look, he drew back his sword to swing it down once more, finally severing head from body. The shallow ford of the Trident a stream of red as Baratheon's body lurched forward under the water.

* * *

**Eddard I**

* * *

He looked to the fire pit, leaning closer to view the parchment one last time, the scrawled word giving him a glimpse of hope he thought direly lost. Remembering the day a broken man slipped the message to his palm amidst the bloody hell that was the battle at Stoney Sept, having marched all that way to save his chosen brother Robert and received word of his sister well being, the first word of her since she vanished from Winterfell in the Dragon Prince's clutches, the vile, _Rhaegar Targaryen_ , the crown prince who sought to steal his sister's virtue, the crown prince whose actions lured both Brandon and his father to the Mad King and their doomed fates.

 _Dorne._ It was still a several months ride south to it from where they lay camp, and to Eddard, the southern kingdom might as well have been across the Narrow Sea with how far it seemed to him at that moment, yet the distance made no difference, he had his made his choice to follow the message, he had assembled his most faithful men in preparation for it, some closer to Brandon than he, but men he trusted them all the same, good men, dependable men ready to lay down their lives if required. Still, even in his determination to return Lyanna to the North, he couldn't help the nagging thought that he had abandoned his duty, for it was by his estimation, the entire force of the rebellion was to meet the loyalist's near the Trident, if the earlier reports be true the battle to determine the future of Westeros was to be held in the coming day, if it hadn't occurred already. With pursed lips, he recalled the moment after his wedding day on a terrace of Riverrun with Robert.

_"You're certain the message bears truth?" questioned Robert, dressed down in a brown doublet, the black-bearded youth staring south over the Red Fork._

_He nodded, taking a step forward to join the man at his side. "I can't see why it shouldn't, considering who it was that bore the message, I think we can both agree he would have been privy to the Prince's affairs."_

_"Prince? You dare still call that silver-maned rapist, Prince!?" snapped Robert, half turning to view him with a hardened look, a horn of some mead gripped tightly in a fist. "Call that swine, Rhaegar, by what he is, the sniveling, cad. Gods, how I'll break that man, turn his bones to brittle ash with my hammer."_

_"It was rash to make a claim for the throne," noted Eddard._

_"Hah, rash you say. Dammit, Ned, for all your planning, you think too much. Making the claim worked, didn't it? Drew the Mad King's son out from hiding," refuted Robert, taking a pull from the horn, the excess liquor dribbled out the corner of his mouth to run down his beard._

_"You've forced our hand to meet the entire host of the throne in battle now, forty thousand men, Robert. Forty thousand," he returned, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We're outnumbered."_

_Swallowing his mead, Robert swiped a hand through the air as if disregarding his words entirely. "We've got the experience on our side. Battle-hardened men who've not yet quenched their thirst for blood, Targaryen blood."_

_"Do you speak for the men in our service, or do you speak for yourself?" asked Eddard._

_"Does it matter, you'll not be there on the field to witness me strike down the Last Dragon anyway," grumbled Robert, he pushed off the banister of the terrace, done with the view of the waters that surrounded House Tully's keep._

_Grumbling, he shook his head. "I told you I'd see the battle through."_

_"And waste precious time in rescuing, my betrothed, your sister! Piss on that, you're going south to bring her back," huffed Robert. "I can't even imagine what she's gone through. No matter it, I'll love her all the same, you know that, don't you, Ned."_

_"I know it," he confirmed quietly. "I'll settle my affairs, and say my goodbye's to Catelyn in the morning. I'll set out south from there."_

_"Good, the quicker the better," returned Robert. "Have you decided yet on which one of your Lord's you intend to leave in command?"_

_Eddard was quiet, that question alone having plagued him the previous day, even after he bedded his new wife, the decision troubled his sleep. Knowing the best man was also quite possibly the worst. "I've decided on Roose Bolton. He's young like us, but he keeps himself collected. Proved himself at Stoney Sept."_

_"Bolton? The one with those pale, dead eyes?" inquired Robert grimly._

_"Aye, that's him."_

_"You leave me in sore company then," jested Robert, a laugh barreling out of him._

Shaking himself from the memory, Eddard turned back to the fire pit, reading the message once more before rolling it up and tucking it away into the saddlebag at his side. He sat, watching the flames, hoping the crackle of roasted timber would bring him some form of peace in the late of night, it wasn't long till his eyes grew heavy and he fell back to the grass, joining his few chosen companions in slumber.


	2. A Parley with Rebels, and the Fall of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar looks to negotiate the end of the Rebellion. Jaime Lannister is made to question his vows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been left interested enough to read the prelude. I'm hoping to get these chapters out quick, being that there isn't many of them, and the main fic relates back to things that transpire here. That said, the main fic will be the next chapter to come out for the series.
> 
> Thanks for all the support!

* * *

_ **Prelude to A Clash of Vows** _

_ **A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter Two: A Parley with Rebels, and the Fall of Madness**

* * *

  **Rhaegar II**

* * *

As the sun set over the Green Fork, and the bodies of the dead lay in heaps atop packed wagons, flies pestering them. As the night's sky loomed over the wounded, who lay in agony as they were tended to by Silent-Sister's. Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name, tired and melancholy from the days battle, resided in his tent alone, listening as the black canvass that held its shape rippled against the nights cool, calming breeze.

The onyx armour he had worn into battle lay in a discarded mound on one side, a simple cot layered with furs on the other, at the center of the tent, there sat a modest table with two chairs where he lounged, nursing a skin of wine, barechested with bandages wrapped around his abdomen to provide support to his bruised ribs a Maester had assured him would heal without cause for concern.

Lifting the skin of wine to his lips, he partook in a long pull, hoping direly to drown out the pain that seized his side, turning slightly as he heard the rustling of his tents flap, he gave a nod of greeting as Ser Barristan Selmy entered, his silver armour plate cleaned and shined, if one hadn't seen him in the battle you wouldn't tell he had participated at all by the look of him, his only wound being a black, and purple bruise set under his right eye.

"Pardon my intrusion, my Prince, I bring word of the rebel Lord's," Barristan divulged, sweeping to a humble bow.

"Word of them alive?" Questioned Rhaegar, shifting in his seat.

Barristan nodded. "As it were, Lord Walder of the House Frey captured Lord Hoster Tully on his way to the Trident, I suspect the river Lord to have heard of your victory and looked to save his own hide from your father's reckoning, that or purposefully waited to know the battle's outcome before choosing a side."

"House Frey's honor or intentions doesn't concern me, they captured Lord Tully on our behalf, they will be commended. Pray tell, what of the other two, Lord Stark and Arryn, what news have you of them?" Asked Rhaegar, wincing as he leaned forward in his seat.

"Lord Arryn and a host of his men rode into camp this evening, seeking an audience with you. A foolish act to have done, though I must say I admire the man for it, it's honourable," noted Barristan, the weathered Kingsguard paused for a moment before continuing. "As for Lord Stark, it's been revealed through questioning of some of the captured Northmen that the young Lord wasn't present at the day's battle."

Rhaegar's silver brows met in the middle, a look of confusion coming across his handsome face. "You must be mistaken, Ser, I saw the wolf banner in the fray of battle along with all the other banners of the north. I swear to you I saw the grey wolf."

"A Stark host of men lead into battle by one of the North's vassals, a _Lord Roose_ of House Bolton lead the Northmen into battle, my Prince. We caught him earlier in the day, not knowing his task for command, but its been just recently we learned of Lord Stark not being present." Answered Barristan, albeit a bit hesitant.

"If Stark's not here, then where is he?" Demanded Rhaegar, his hand clenched the skin, a trickle of wine flowing up. His grip loosening as it trickled down over his fingers.

"Lord Stark's whereabouts are unknown, my Prince. His own bannermen don't seem to have been informed on where he had gone. If it should please you, I can send a rider to the nearest keep and dispatch a raven to the capital, mayhaps your father's _spider_ might know." Suggested Barristan.

"Yes, _Varys..._ Send a raven at once," ordered Rhaegar, pausing as another thought came to him. "Oh, and Ser Barristan?"

"My Prince?" Inquired Barristan, his hand clasping a clump of the tent's flap, already halfway out to carry through the Prince's prior request.

"Bring me the rebel Lord's and the man Stark left to command in his stead, mayhaps we can speak terms and put this rebellion to rest at last," mused Rhaegar, using the tied cork around the neck of the skin, he plugged the spout, putting an end to his drinking, at least for the time being.

Barristan bowed to the Prince's request and departed the tent in haste, leaving Rhaegar to his injury, skin of wine, and a flurry of thoughts. The knowledge of Eddard Stark's absence was concerning to him, but the man's bannermen were here, prisoners of war, an attack by Stark elsewhere seemed unlikely, but still he had to be somewhere and that thought alone had him throwing the skin of wine across the tent in frustration, he hadn't crushed the rebellion, he had simply placed it in a state of limbo.

Far to lost in the recess of his mind, the recognition of passed time failed to register till the flap of his tent was pulled open once more and Barristan returned to sight.

"I have the rebel Lord's, my Prince. Shall you see them now?" Asked Barristan, the word rebel spat from his mouth as though it left a vile taste upon his tongue.

Hand held at his ribs, Rhaegar got to his feet, wavering for a moment, he collected himself and stood tall, bracing a hand atop the table to keep him so. "Aye, bring them before me."

Barristan looked to leave, but he halted, taking a second look at the Prince. "Mayhaps you will consider a tunic. It would not serve you well to negotiate with your injury on display, not quite the portrayal of strength you'll want them to see."

Rhaegar looked down to his pale chest and bandaged abdomen, how had he forgotten? Did his mind look to leave him already at the age of twenty-and-three? He looked to Barristan with a raised hand. "You advise me well, Ser. The days battle has drained me of a thinking mind."

Barristan waited patiently for him to retrieve a sable tunic from the end of his cot before disappearing from the tent, only to return with a few of Rhaegar's own men from Dragonstone, their dark steel chestplates decorated with an engraved three-headed dragon, behind them walked three men of differing grimaces and foul scowls. Minus the one drabbed in Northern garb, Rhaegar recognized the two others as the liege Lord's of the Vale and the Riverlands.

"Kneel before the Prince, you traitors!" Growled Barristan, he held his hand on the hilt of his sword, but the slight nod he received from Rhaegar had him restraining himself.

"Forgive, Ser Barristan, my Lord's. He like you has fought tirelessly since the outbreak of this conflict," began Rhaegar neutraĺly, he held his voice level, returning to his spot at the table. Bracing himself against it, easing the discomfort throbbing at his side. "Sometimes the line of enemy and friend can be blurred during tumultuous times such as those we have found ourselves in over these past few years. I had hoped to meet with you all tonight to try and bring clarity to these lines, see if friend can be made from foe."

Sporting a black eye and crusted blood from his nostrils over the stubs of his trimmed mustache, Hoster Tully huffed a breath. "Quit playing, boy, carry out your bloody father's will already, where's your green fire? I've made my peace, I'm ready to meet the Seven."

"I have no intention to see you burned as my father would have, Lord Tully, I had no intention to have even fought you. This war was started by you and your allies, I'm here to see it ended. Let the realms heal from this travesty, let there be peace in Westeros once more," implored Rhaegar.

"Peace? There'll not be peace for as long as the Mad King sits the throne," grumbled Hoster viciously, shaking himself free from the grasp of his capturer.

Rhaegar was quiet for a moment, his gaze shifting to the other two men. "Lord Arryn, I was told you rode willingly into my camp, requested an audience with me. I take it you are open to seeing this war concluded?"

Head hanging, Jon Arryn tentatively lowered himself to a bended knee. "I came here after hearing you had taken Robert's head. I came here hoping to claim his body, and give him the proper burial he deserves."

Rhaegar was momentarilly dejected, having had high hopes the man had come to camp to pledge fealty. "Is that all you've come here for, my Lord?"

"I raised that boy from a shrub, your Grace, he may not be of my blood, but he is as much a son to me as your children are to you," expanded Arryn, he raised his head to meet Rhaegar's eyes. "I'm prepared to discuss terms of surrender if you hand over Robert's remains."

"For all my sins, I'm not a man who would dishonour the dead my Lord, I will arrange for Robert Baratheon's remains be turned over to you," answered Rhaegar, his tone grave. "Know this, Lord Arryn, I offered the Lord of Storm's End an alternative fate to death's abyss. He refused, choosing to die rather than take my mercy."

"Robert wouldn't have had it any other way, the boy was stubborn, let his anger speak for him when he should have thought rationally," noted Jon Arryn sadly, his eyes glazed over as if reliving a distant memory.

"I'm sorry for your loss," offered Rhaegar, regretting the compassion as the glazed look cleared from Arryn's eyes and a cold facade slipped into place.

"I've not forgot it was you who antagonized this war, nor when your father asked for me to turn Robert and Eddard over to him as if I'd act a turncloak," Muttered Arryn bitterly. "Do you know my House words, Dragon Prince?"

"As High as Honour," answered Rhaegar.

"As High as Honour," repeated Arryn firmly, peering up at him. "Your father's a fool to have thought I had none. To think I would have handed my Ward's over to his wretchedness."

Rhaegar looked away. "I can not defend the actions of my father, my Lord, I am not him, merely his son. Now, you said you would discuss terms of surrender, pray tell your terms."

Jon Arryn raised a bushy brow, the man off-put by the request for his terms. "You would have my terms?"

"Unless you prefer I give mine," countered Rhaegar, his eye twitched as he struggled to keep composed, a sharp pain shooting through his ribs.

"I'll hear yours," replied Arryn curiously, the aged Lord of the Eyrie looking to him with a narrowed gaze.

"As you wish, I would have us begin with talk of ending an ongoing dispute," said Rhaegar, unable to bear the soreness of his ribs any longer, he took a seat at his table. "Robert has left behind his brother, Stannis, a young man who I'm sure you know has a reputation that precedes him, stubborn and dutiful, he's also the Baratheon who holds the keep of Storm's End, as I am sure you are aware, House Tyrell on behalf of the crown is commanding its siege. I shall have you travel south and speak with the man, inform him of his brother's demise as I doubt he will believe it coming from me. You will then convince him to lay down his arms in exchange for amnesty."

"The Mad King is going to allow you to spare Lord Robert's brother?" Scoffed Tully skeptical. "Do you forget your father had the former Lord of Winterfell burned to death simply for asking his son be set free from the Red Keep's dungeons, you think he'll let you leave Stannis alive, his brother Renly for that matter?"

Rhaegar chanced a glance to Barristan. "Ser Barristan, if you will excuse us. I hope to have a word with them in privacy."

"Your grace, I must object, it's not wise to leave you alone with this rabble, the King tasked me as your guardian," protested Barristan, but the look Rhaegar shot him showed the man it wasn't up for debate, the Kingsguard delivering a bowing before exiting the tent.

Rhaegar looked to the men who served under him on Dragonstone, he trusted them, sparred with them, broke bread and drank wine with them. They may carry his House sigil on their chest, but it was to him they sowed their loyalty to. Turning to Hoster Tully and the ropes that bound his hands together at his front, he motioned to one of his men. '"Remove, Lord Tully's restraints."

Silently and without debate, one of the soldiers stepped forward and used a dagger pulled from his belt to cut the ropes off, the tangle of twine falling at a clump to the grass floor of the tent, Hoster in return looked to his hands, gently rubbing at his wrists where the ropes had dug into his skin.

"Consider that a gesture of good will, Lord Tully," commented Rhaegar, his eyes shifting to the Northman at last. "Do you speak for, Lord Stark, Lord....?"

"Bolton," came the stern reply, the man's chalky pale eyes appeared cold, mayhaps heartless even. "Of the Dreadfort, and nay, your Grace. Lord Stark gave me the command of our forces, I was not entrusted by him to speak terms."

"Then regrettably you are of no current use to this discussion unless you can tell me where it is I might find your liege Lord?" Asked Rhaegar.

"I was not privy to where he departed off to, although he seemed quite taken with whatever it was that caught his interest," answered Roose, the young man held his head high when speaking. Leave it to a Northman to still be filled with pride even in defeat.

Rhaegar looked at the guard who had previously removed Hoster Tully's restraints. "Take Lord Bolton away, I'm certain the men under his banner miss his company."

"Aye, your Grace," muttered the guard, he placed a hand on Bolton's elbow and guided the man from the tent.

"Stand, Lord Arryn," commanded Rhaegar, the Lord of the Vale did as instructed, slowly getting to his feet, wearily looking to the Prince before him. "Lord Tully had asked how I hoped to spare Stannis Baratheon's life where my father is concerned, heed my words closely, my Lord's, I shant repeat them. My father's reign is at an end. For far too long I have sat by at Dragonstone, ignorant of my father's growing insanity and by mine own desire to avoid the awful man. I should have intervened years earlier, mayhaps then we wouldn't be finding ourselves where we stand this very night."

Hoster Tully shot the Prince a look of disbelief. "Are you implying that you plan to overthrow the Mad King?"

 _"Aerys,"_ Rhaegar corrected. "Despite his ill mind, I will not adhere to the names he's called in taverns."

Sneering slightly, Hoster relented. "King Aerys then, you say you plan to usurp him, boy?"

"I shall mark your ignorance of respect to my due title from having lost the battle today, my Lord, that said, henceforth you will address me as _my_ _Prince_ ," Rhaegar chided, still he held his voice level, unwilling to let the Lord of the Riverlands get a rise out of him any more than he already had.

Drawing a deep breath, Hoster didn't challenge Rhaegar any further. The ropes binding him may have been removed, but that didn't necessarily mean he was free.

"The plan to remove my father from the Iron Throne is already in motion," admitted Rhaegar. "I wrote to Tywin Lannister, asking for his assistance in accomplishing this. Lord Tywin's dislike for my father is no secret. Likewise, I have written to my father informing him that I have gathered the Lannister's support."

"Aerys' old Hand is going to take the throne for you?" Questioned Hoster skeptically.

"As we speak, twelve thousand men under the banner House Lannister's lion march from the Westerland's on King's Landing under the guise of reinforcing the capital. Upon their arrival they will ensure the City Watch are unable to mount a defense in my father's name should he try to do so, my father will then be deposed from the throne and sent to Dragonstone under the watch of the Kingsguard to live out the rest of his days," Divulged Rhaegar.

"Why reveal such a plot to us?" Questioned Jon Arryn.

"Westeros is on the verge of turning a new page in the tome's of history, Lord Arryn, simply put, I don't care to have that fresh page start with a continued civil war," returned Rhaegar. "I am giving you both the opportunity right now to be apart of that new page. Bend the knee and pledge fealty to my House as your forebearers once did, and in turn, I shall forgive you and your bannermen for the crimes committed against the crown during this uprising."

 _"You will let us live,"_ mumbled Hoster slowly. "You will let us retain our titles over our Land's?"

Rhaegar nodded. "You shall pay no price for your disloyalty, all will be forgiven. My father's cruelty led you to take up arms, your actions during this conflict weren't done out of malice or greed, or even the seeking of a higher position for yourselves. You fought against tyranny. I respect that despite having to fight against you. Now, given what I've told you regarding my intentions for my father, given that your banners have fallen, I ask you to cease hostilities and let peace resume its course."

A silence engulfed the tent as the three men looked to one another, finally the silence broke as Hoster Tully sank to a knee at Rhaegar's feet.

"Let's get the words said and done with then," muttered Hoster, despite his disheveled appearance, he stuck his chest out as he prepared to make his vow. "I, Hoster of the House Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident pledge to serve, his Grace, Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Not just to I, Lord Tully, your children will serve my House and their children after them until our Houses cease to exist," corrected Rhaegar.

With a clenched jaw, Hoster bobbed his head. "House Tully shall serve House Targaryen in perpetuity, your Grace."

"Consider the crimes of your and your bannermen forgotten, Lord Tully," said Rhaegar, watching as the middle-aged man pushed off the ground to get back to his feet. "I'll send word momentarily, informing my men you are allowed to take your banners and return home. And Lord Tully,"

Eyes narrowed, Hoster's guard went up. _"Your Grace?"_

"I trust House Frey will not suffer any repercussions for their decision to take you captive," ventured Rhaegar.

"The _Traitor Walder Frey?_ I've half the mind and all the good sense to see the Twins pulled asunder, and the branches of his House hung from the tallest tree I can find," snapped Hoster, the dried blood from his nose still serving to keep the Frey's betrayal fresh in his mind.

"I shant refute their betrayal to you and your House, but Lord Frey chose to serve the crown as late as it was that he chose to do so, I will not see harm befall him or his House," ordered Rhaegar sternly. "To make amends and ensure lasting peace in the Riverlands, I will permit you to take a member of his House besides his heir, you may keep them a hostage at Riverrun to ensure House Frey's future obedience, if not their loyalty."

Hoster growled a low, ferocious sound.

"Do we have an understanding, my Lord?"

"Aye, we have an understanding," grumbled Hoster, he reached up and brushed his trimmed mustache, the dried blood flaking off.

Rhaegar turned to Jon Arryn, the man shifting uneasily from foot to foot under the violet eyes.

"Do I have your word no harm will befall Robert's brothers, Stannis and Renly?" Asked Arryn.

"You have my word, Lord Arryn."

With a hard swallow that was probably his pride, Jon Arryn sank to one knee. "If this is to end the bloodshed, we best not dawdle about it. I, Jon of the House Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East, hereby pledge fealty to House Targaryen from this day, and for all days to come."

Rhaegar extended a hand, motioning for the men before him to stand, it would be in the death of Robert's Rebellion that his reign would begin, his focus now revolved around bringing the elusive wolf and stubborn stag back into the fold. He waited for Arryn to leave the tent with his House Guard accompanying him as the man's minders before pulling open the flap to summon Barristan once more to his tent. Despite his hesitance in whether or not to trust the stoic man he considered to be one of his closest friends in his plot to depose his father from the throne, he knew he could trust Barristan Selmy as much as he trusted all the men of the Kingsguard, he'd inform Selmy first, then Darry, both men deserved to know, he just couldn't bear to see them both torn in their vows when he told them.

"That was foolish of you to have met with the rebel Lord's without myself or Ser Jonothor present," chastised Barristan as he entered into the tent.

"Mayhaps memory fails me, pray tell, who was named champion at the Harrenhall Tourney?" Asked Rhaegar, as he took a swig from the skin of wine and held it out for Barristan to take.

Snorting, Barristan took the skin and had a drink before replying. "You were, my Prince."

"Correct, Barristan, I was, even as I stand broken, I am quite certain I could have taken two old Lords if it should have come to it," commented Rhaegar lightly, taking the skin back from Barristan, he eyed the man with sympathy, remembering then that he had come to the Riverlands with three men of the order of white cloaks, but left the battlefield with only two. "I never truly relayed my condolences to you for, Ser Lewyn. He was a good man, a good warrior. I dread the idea of having to write Elia to inform her of his death. She loved him dearly, like her own father I suspect."

"Let's have a drink to the man, the likes of which Dorne will never breed again," toasted Barristan, watching him as he raised the skin before taking a drink.

"To Ser Llewyn," announced Rhaegar, he brought it down to his lips for a generous pull before passing it off once again to Barristan who was just as generous in his drink.

"I regret not being at your side when you engaged Baratheon, It should have been I that fought him," grumbled Barristand abashed. "Mayhaps I may have spared you from your battered wound."

"Its but a bruise, Ser Barristan, nothing more," dismissed Rhaegar, subconsciously he rubbed at the bandages that wrapped his ribs. "I only wish I'd been able to deliver the killing blow to him while he was on his feet. The taking of his head wasn't ideal."

"You offered, Baratheon the Wall, the man refused, what else could you have done," reasoned Barristan, the man paused to have a swig from the skin. "Though I should think your father wouldn't have offered, he would have certainly given the Black Stag up to his green fire."

"My father and his pyromancers," spat Rhaegar, he inhaled a breath to calm himself before fixing Barristan with a look so serious and sober, the other man might've guessed he was someone else. "Do you remember the day I came to King's Landing and informed my father I would personally lead our bannermen to battle?"

"I remember it well, your grace, its a memory I doubt I will ever forget," Returned Barristan.

Rhaegar sighed, holding out his hand for the skin, Barristan obliging him with it. "My motives for doing as such weren't as pure of intention as I may have lead you to believe."

Barristan shook his head. "You speak of deception?"

"This evening I made a truce with the Lord's of the Vale and the Riverland's. They and the Houses under them are now pledged in servitude to me," started Rhaegar, his eyes measuring Barristan's reaction. "House Lannister has pledged itself to me as well. Lord Tywin is currently marching with a host from the Westerlands to seize King's Landing under false pretenses. This time tomorrow, my father will no longer be the King of the Seven Kingdoms. _I will_."

Barristan leaped to his feet, his face displaying an array of emotions, from betrayal and disappointment to finally hope and confusion. "... Who else knows?"

"You, Darry and Jaime Lannister are the only ones of the Kingsguard who I've yet to inform," Answered Rhaegar, he took a drink from the skin and offered it back to Barristan.

 _"Lewyn knew?"_ Questioned Barristan brokenly.

"My father has been holding his niece, _my wife_ , hostage in King's Landing, I had asked she and our children be sent to Sunspear for their safety, he declined. He's convinced the Martell's will betray us, but the Martell's only want Elia to be free from his madness, just as much as the Kingdoms want to be free from it. If Tywin Lannister had not agreed to my proposal, I would have sent the banners of the crownlands home after the Trident, and marched with the Dornish host under, Ser Llewyn to take the capital." Answered Rhaegar, he nudged the skin in Barristan's direction, imploring the man to have a drink.

"Hightower, Dayne, and Whent, they know of this?" Pondered Barristan, the Kingsguard grudgingly taking the skin.

Rhaegar bowed his head, his eyes fixed on his feet. "Tell me, Barristan, what do you know of, Lyanna Stark?"

The man's brows pulled together, a crease formed upon his forehead. "Nothing but lies without merit, rumors spread by your enemies to slander and sully you and your father."

"Lies with some truth," divulged Rhaegar solemnly. "She forsook the arranged betrothal she had to Robert Baratheon. At her behest, I rode North in the cloak of darkness to take her south, save her from a life of torment and misery. I love her, Ser Barristan. More than I could ever think to love, Elia. A terrible thing to admit, but a truth I must own."

"You are wed to, Elia, my Prince. Nothing can come of you and the Stark girl, why would you indulge in such a thing?" Asked Barristan, it was as though the world as he knew it was turned upside down.

"I was made to wed Elia, I felt for her as a man feels for a good mare, not that the two are comparable. There was no love, only affection," answered Rhaegar, the information caused Barristan to finally take a long drink from the skin. "Lyanna Stark holds my heart, just as she now holds in her belly, my sire. Your Lord Commander, along with Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell have taken to guarding her in Dorne, hidden where the rebels can't find her."

Barristan nearly spewed the wine from his mouth, his eyes as wide as saucers. "The Stark girl's with child?!"

"She's more than just a Stark, she is the love of my life, and soon enough, she will be the future mother to my unborn seed," Rhaegar said. "If I have offended your honour, Ser Barristan, and you can not bear to wear the white cloak in service to me. I shall hold no ill will to you, but if you can stomach my actions and continue to serve as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, I would be humbled."

"I took an oath to serve your father," mumbled Barristan, his eyes clenched shut. "But I'd be naive to not admit his sickened mind has poisoned the Kingdoms and spurned this revolt," he fell silent as torn on whether to continue, finally after a pregnant silence, he carried on. "Your father's not the man I had once served in my youth, I had been proud to wear this cloak at one time in his service, that time has long since passed, and I've only ever felt such pride again only recently while in servitude to you, my Prince. I hope to carry that pride to my dying days," He paused and sank to his knees at Rhaegar's feet. "I pledge my sword to you, _my King_."

* * *

**Jaime I**

* * *

As the city of King's Landing stood cloaked in black smoke as plumes of burning buildings ascended over the cries and screams that echoed through the streets as Lannister men clad in their crimson armor ransacked the city, rounding up the men of the City Watch who had earlier cheered their arrival to the city. Above the chaos, on the highest hill and behind the closed gates of the Red Keep and the few men who attempted to defend it from the force of Lannister men hammering it with a battering ram, yet within the pale red stone walls of the Keep itself, Jaime Lannister pulled his sword from the gut of the King's Hand, the pyromancer, Rossart, the crazed man who had been conceited enough to take a torch of green flame as his personal sigil, gaped at Jaime as the life faded from his face, but Jaime, uncaring for Rossart let the man's body drop to the marble floor, a pool of blood forming around him.

He'd done it, he'd put an end to Aerys plot, intervening on behalf of all the unknowing, ungrateful souls that lived in the filth and grime that was the capital below, would they have thanked him if they knew? Would they smile and cheer him like they did Rhaegar when the man would sing through the streets? He doubted it. Using his white cloak to cleanse the blood that stained the length of his sword, he sheathed his blade and stepped over the corpse of the man at his feet, his quick stride carrying him from the alcove he had dragged Rossart into. Cloak swishing at the ground behind him, he made his way steadfast, and purposeful through the corridors filled with teary, frightful servants, he had no mind to pay them as he soon found himself at the great oak doors of the throne room, with most of the men with the City Watch tending to keeping the troops of his own familial House from entering the Keep, Jaime entered unhindered, his face contorting as a putrid stench of burnt flesh and the glow of green wildfire greeted him, was this not usually an almost everyday occurance for the Mad King's throne room.

He may have been surprised by it, if it weren't for all the years he had stood here in court as the Mad King's roasted those he perceived to have slighted him, while their screams never left you, it was in the duty of a Kingsguard to abide the King's wishes, as horrific and gruesome as they were. He shuddered at the memories, he pitied those men, the Stark's, the men who perished before them, he even pitied Rossart's predecessor, Qarlton Chelsted, a man he believed to be a craven but had attempted to stop Aerys from burning the capital even before Jaime had mustered the courage in a dire time that the plot seemed inevitable to occur. Shaking the past from his mind, he did note with some mild interest the dark linen that hung over the Great Hall's stained glass windows, so dark a shade they blotted out the natural light of the sun. No doubt a new addition to the King's descent into absolute madness.

Striding through the great hall, and its towering columns and court of dragon skulls that sat caked in a thick coat of dust with cobwebs strung between their monstrous teeth and where the sockets of their eyes would have been, Jaime looked to the set of steps that stretched up to the seat of melded swords, perched upon it was the Mad King himself in all his crazed glory. So taken with the roaring of green flames, Jaime didn't think the King noticed his presence. What was it the man saw in the fire that drove him to be so distant with the reality of the world, as Lannister men threatened to enter his keep and rid him of his seat of power, the King looked on to the fire, his gaze unwavering, it was in that pondering thought that made Jaime finally look to the sickly flames that feasted on three indistinguishable corpses, or was it bones, what he could differ was that one looked to be the size of an adult and the other two of some young age... an adult and two youth, a mother and two children, Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen's children. The Mad King had held them there since the uprising began, while it wasn't ever said why, Jaime and most others suspected it was to keep the loyalty of Dorne and Aerys' own son, Rhaegar.

A cold shiver ran the course of Jaime's spine, his gaze turning back to the Mad King, hoping direly the madman might disprove his suspicions. "What have you done?"

Neck twisting, Aerys viewed Jaime with a vacant look, his pale face framed by unkempt silver hair and beard that ran a great length over his knees. His hands resting over the armrests of his throne of vanquished swords, his long, ungroomed nails curling into his palms. "Burn them, burn them all!"

Anger gripping him, Jaime stalked forward. "Answer me you fool, what have you done?! They were children, children for fuck sake! Your own damn grandchildren!"

"Burn them," chanted Aerys, his teeth chattering in his skull.

Looking back to the wildfire and the corpses as they crumbled to ash, Jaime reached for his sword, unleashing it from its sheath in one swift pull. Rhaegar had ordered him to stay behind as the rest of the Kingsguard went off to serve valiantly, he had taken an oath to keep those of the royal family safe, and he had failed. But surely he could make amends, he was tasked with defending the Targaryen dynasty, but if one Targaryen killed the other, who was he to defend, young Aegon and Rhaenyrs were dead, but they could be avenged, even if it meant breaking his vows to uphold them.

"Your madness has gone too far," snapped Jaime, he stalked to the foot of stairs comprised of melted swords that lead up the twisted Iron Throne Aerys sat atop. "Stand you snake. Get up and stand I say!"

"My son's betrayed me, open the gates he wrote, open them said Pycelle, Tywin is your friend he said, _the treacherous fiends_ , my own son sought to feed me to the lion!" Snapped Aerys, his eyes wide and for a second Jaime saw clarity in the man's gaze. _The Mad fool had knowingly burned his son's family_. "I am the King, I am a dragon and I will devour them with fire, I will burn them all!"

Jaime shook his head, his golden hair swishing about his shoulders. "You're no King, nor a dragon, you're nothing but a monster, a mad, vile monster!"

Cackling with a maniacal laugh that filled the room, Aerys leaned forward in his seat, his hand raising up to point at Jaime with an overgrown nail. "Burn, _burn, BURN!_ "

Climbing the steps that was the distance between them, Jaime thrust his sword forward, he barely need apply force as it plunged through the Mad King's stomach, the unkempt man extinguishing a gasp of air as the breath was knocked from his lungs, his hands fumbling out in front of him at Jaime's chest and shoulders, clinging to the young Kingsguard as if it would save him from death. Unrepentant, Jaime took a step back from the Mad King's grasp. Pulling his sword with him, he watched as blood spurted and flowed out of Aerys Targaryen's open wound. Shakily and to Jaime's surprise the Mad King got to his feet, blood gurgling at his chapped lips, he made it a single step down before lurching forward and falling, his body tumbling over each steps ledge till he lay motionless at the base. His golden crown shaped in a loop of intertwined dragons tossed from his head and laying a few feet away.

Letting his sword fall from his hand so it clattered down the steps, Jaime fell into the iron throne, his eyes incapable of not staring at the dead King, just as Aerys had stared into the flames that had burned Elia Martell and her children. Eventually the wildfire withered and faded, leaving him to sit in the darkness of the throne room, with the sheets that blanketed the windows, he wasn't sure what time of day it was when the doors to the throne room burst open and the tall imposing frame of Tywin Lannister appeared flocked by his House men and a giant of a man, Jaime knew only as the Mountain, Gregor Clegane.

Tywin's face held a look of distaste as he passed the charred remains of the throne room floor, his eyes drifting over Aerys to his son on the throne. "The King is dead."

Refusing to meet his father's focus, Jaime stared at his feet. "The King is dead," he confirmed.

"He was to be taken alive by Rhaegar's request," scowled Tywin.

"The King burned the Prince's wife and children," mumbled Jaime quietly. "Killed his own grandchildren!"

"And where were you, hmm?" Questioned Tywin, not missing a stride, he stepped over Aerys crumpled body as though it were nothing more the discarded rubbish, the slender patriarch of House Lannister ascending the steep steps of the throne till the man was only a few from where he sat. "You're a member of the Kingsguard, are you not? How is it those inane vows you swore go, _'defend the lives of those who share your King's blood as if you were defending the King himself'_ , so pray tell, Ser Jaime, _Kingsguard Knight_ , why were you not there to keep them safe?"

He wanted to shout he had gone to save the thousands of innocent lives Aerys planned to burn, but Jaime sat, silent and distraught on the throne.

"And this was who was to have been my heir," sneered Tywin disappointedly. "Get out of that chair you fool, the last thing I need now is for the Prince to hear that my son not only let his children be murdered, killed his mad father, but was rumored to have tried to steal his crown as well... Just when I had thought Tyrion was the only one to disgrace the name Lannister."

Despite his boyish features, Jaime stood from the seat and fixed Tywin with a glare. "What of your disgrace, how many coins did you put in Pycelle's coffers to have the man convince the Mad King to open the gates, so you could sack the city. Where was the honour in that, and you say I disgrace our name?"

"Mind your tone, boy. I made an arrangement with the Crown Prince for the betterment of our House, would you have preferred I dispatched a raven to you instead of Pycelle to ensure the gates were opened? Requesting _you_ to open the gates, do you think me a halfwit? I do not doubt for a moment by your honor-bound oath to be Aerys' lapdog you would have told the King of my true intention," returned Tywin stiffly, his eyes raking his son over. "Now, you're covered in blood. Go clean yourself. With any luck you may be able to wash out some of the stain you've left upon our House."

Teeth gritted, Jaime rose from the throne and climbed down the steps, storming passed his father, on his way from the throne room he brushed shoulders with the aged Grand Maester Pycelle who had entered, looking eager to embrace his father. _Curse Tywin Lannister, curse the Mad King, and curse the honor-bound oaths he'd not been able to uphold._

* * *


	3. Blood of the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddard makes his destination as Rhaegar makes for the capital to take the throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're getting there with this thing, thank you for everyone who has taken the time to read this and give your support. It is all greatly appreciated!

* * *

_**Prelude to A Clash of Vows** _

_**A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter Three: Blood of the Dragon**

* * *

**Eddard II**

* * *

Hooves thundering on the arid dirt road in between looming red mountains that reached to the sky on either side of them. The air hot and lacking of moisture, Eddard perspirated beneath the thick leather of his gambeson, the wolf engraved gorget around his neck choking him under the beating heat of the Dornish sun.

Digging his heel into the sides of his destrier, he took off at a hasty gallop to rejoin the weary horsemen who had accompanied him.

A company of men he considered to be the finest in all the North by his own opinion, he let his eyes rake over them, William Dustin, thick beard and broad shoulder was every inch a warrior. Martyn Cassel, a father of many sons and loyal servant to House Stark, and a swordsman of profound skill to boot. Theo Wull, unkempt and marred in battle scars, he was truly a descendant of the First Men. Howland Reed, crannogman and a man whose advice Eddard trusted above all else, he was Lyanna's companion and the only other man beside himself that had rode so far south solely for her. Last of his companions but in no means less than any of the others was, Ser Mark Ryswell, a knight of the North whose bravery had garnered him the respect of all those who knew him.

They were hard men, _Northmen,_ men who had fought and bled for him since the outbreak of war, men he trusted without question and who followed him blindly when he sought to go south on his foolhardy attempt to recover his sister.

"The skins are nearly out of water, my Lord," called Ryswell hoarsely, tugging at the collar of his chest plate he sweltered under.

"We're near our journey's end, Ser Mark," returned Eddard, his gaze drawn to an erect structure standing atop a cliff's edge in the far distance, round in shape and built in a series of interlocking sandstone blocks tinted red. His chest thumped with an increased beating of his heart, the anticipation for this moment long awaited. An end to a beginning.

"If word be true about the tower, I doubt the Prince would have left her without guard," noted Howland, coming to ride up beside Eddard, beads of sweat across his brow.

Eddard's fingers tightened around the reigns of his steed. "I've come to far to be dissuaded by the thought of a fight, Howland. It's not too late for any of you to turn back," his voice growing louder as he made to address his fellow companions as a whole. "This task is mine own, I won't ask any of you to give your life for it."

"Hah!" Gaffed William Dustin from ahead, his large bushy beard jiggling as he released a hearty laugh. "You take us for soft women, Lord Ned? We won't be running from a fight, certainly not one where I can cut down a few more Targaryen loyalists, the bastards!"

"Here, here, Lord William!" Cheered Martyn Cassel, an empty hand holding what should have been a goblet up over his head.

A sense of comfort settled over Eddard with the knowledge he wasn't to face whatever awaited him ahead alone. The feeling was short lived as anguished cries rang out in the distance, echoing off the rigid red mountains around them. Despite the heat, a chill ran the course of his entire body as he listened to the pained cries -as barely audible as they were- he recognized the voice in the cry, time apart hadn't dulled his memory of her.

 _Gods,_ _Lyanna!_

"With haste!" Shouted Eddard, leaning forward, he dug his heels sharply in and his destrier whined as it took off at a gallop, the heavy thudding of hooves racing behind him as the stout tower in the distance grew in their approach.

* * *

**Rhaegar III**

* * *

It was days before Rhaegar could mount a horse and actually ride from the Trident, leaving behind a camp of imprisoned northmen. The memory of Robert Baratheon's Warhammer not forgotten by his ribs that still ached and lingered with a splotched bruise of black and blue. At last, he had healed enough that he could mount a saddle and bear the jostling of a trodding steed to be able to set forth for the capital.

Despite the evenings they made camp on their route south, it was only near the burned ruin of Harrenhall where the trusted House Whent called home did they stop for a true rest from their march. Taking a few days there so missives could be sent, Rhaegar had tasked Ser Jonothor Darry, the most trusted man in his current service to act as his carrier, riding to and fro from their encampment to House Whent's keep to try and maintain the steady flow of Ravens that had flown day and night since the engagement that was steadily becoming referred to as the Battle of Trident, for with the Prince's victory there, came pledges of fealty from vassal House's of the rebellious Kingdoms, and written word of congratulations from the House's still loyal to the crown. 

In all honesty, Rhaegar's wrist hurt more from the writing of replies than his ribs did. Mixed in with the oathful pledges that came in, he had received a vague message from his father's Master of Whisperer's informing him that Eddard Stark had been spotted in some back road in the Reach heading south, the direction being enough cause for the King-to-be to dispatch Ser Barristan Selmy and twenty men on horse to Dorne, specifically the tower in which Lyanna had been stowed away before he had ridden to take command of the loyalist army. 

The days following in the flurry of sending and receiving ravens that the Prince of Dragonstone was informed by a rider that Tywin Lannister and his bannermen had taken the capital, the damage to the city and the fate of those within the Red Keep was yet unknown, troubling news that agitated him to no end.

Now just a few days ride from the capital and a day having passed since Tywin's last missive, Rhaegar presumed the throne to be his and his father locked away in the royal apartments of the Red Keep till he could arrive and exile the crazed man to the desolate rock of their ancestors.

Having spent the current day touring his army's camp, meeting with troops and Lords, Rhaegar returned to his quarters, tired and drained. With his tent in sight, Rhaegar was halted in his advance by the calling of his name. Slowly, he turned to watch as Ser Jonothor Darry jogged towards him, the man's armour clanking with every step, two pieces of rolled parchment held tightly in hand, one with a crimson ribbon tied around it, the other a dark green.

"Ser Jonothor," greeted Rhaegar, his hand held up in an attempt to slow the man. "I take it we've received more ravens."

"I could still spot more swarming the sky when I left Harrenhal to bring these. I shall make another trip to Ser Oswell's kin this evening to retrieve whatever else might have come in," rushed Jonothor, he breathed heavily, no easy feat was it to exert oneself while weighted down by cumbersome plate armor.

"They'll reach us with ease once we're back in King's Landing, I thank you for doing such a tedious task, but I've no other man I trust more with my dispatches," noted Rhaegar, his piercing amethyst eyes lingering on the parchments held in Darry's hand.

Catching on to Rhaegar's gaze, Jonothor held the rolled letters out for the Prince to take. "Its an honour to serve in any way I can, your Grace, though I will thank the Seven when we've stepped foot through the city gates, mayhaps even visit Baelor's Sept to do so."

"Mayhaps I'll join you, the Gods and I have been at odds as of late, I have much to repent for," said Rhaegar solemnly, taking hold of the small scrolls. "Leave the ride back to Harrenhall for the morrow, take leave of duty and rest, Ser. I shall have some of my House guard stand watch over my tent tonight."

"You would have my gratitude, your Grace, my saddle has tarnished my rear, and a rest is surely welcomed from it," said Jonothor, a smile on his lips as he bent at half in a humble bow, turning with a swish of his white cloak as he set off for his lodging.

Watching Darry vanish into the bustling horde or crownland troops, Rhaegar continued on his way for his own tent, the two guards posted at its entrance kneeling as he entered. The decour identical to as it was at the Trident, his cot, chest and table laid out for him, the only detailed difference being the three dozen or more pieces of parchment that littered his table top.

Settling on adding a few more to the pile, Rhaegar took a seat at the table and pulled loose the green ribbon from one of the missives to reveal a wax seal of a rose, breaking it, he unraveled its crinkled paper to read the surprisingly elegant script of Mace Tyrell.

The Lord of Highgarden's letter covering the successful negotiations that transpired to bring about an end to the Siege of Storm's End, successful in large part due to Jon Arryn's effort to persuade the stubborn Stag that he was longer bound to war that his elder brother lay dead. By Mace's account, Stannis had reluctantly agreed to surrender in exchange for amnesty and the Lordship over the Stormlands. Tyrell's missive went on further to state that he should expect a Raven from the Black Stag's brother pledging his fealty within the coming days, furthermore, Lord Tyrell had taken it upon himself to secure Stannis' younger brother, Renly, as a ward to ensure the new Lord Baratheon remained fauthful to the Iron Throne, but if Stannis' reputation was accurate to the man, if he had given his word of fealty, and it wouldn't be broken, even with or without his brother held hostage by the Reach, Stannis would keep to his pledge, bound to it by pride, a man's greatest weakness besides love in Rhaegar's opinion.

Rhaegar let the parchment fall to his lap, content that yet another step was taken in restoring peace to Westeros. Only the wolf of the north remained, as elusive as the man was, his main force had been broken at the trident, all that truly remained was the formality of Lyanna'a brother saying the words to swear fealty to him. Then, and only then could he put Robert's Revolt behind him.

_'To his Grace,_

_As per our arrangement, House Lannister has secured King's Landing. While I should have wished to write informing you of only success, in times of war and in grave circumstances such as these that such feats cannot be undertaken without some measure to loss of life. In the attempt to breach the Red Keep, your father consumed by his mad thoughts had burned your wife and childr_ _\--'_

Rhaegar let the parchment fall from his hands, an indescribable horror taking hold of him, his mind flooding with memories of Elia, and their children, their smiling faces, as they laughed, their content faces as he sang to them while he strung the chords of his harp, then it was gone, the pleasant memories replaced with their screaming, his fathers laughter echoing from a far at a screeching shrill pitch before a flash of vivid green and the flickering flames of wildfire as it consumed his wife and sires.

Shaken from the dark thoughts of his mind as one of his guards entered the tent to check on him, his Silver brows slanted in fury, in the absence of being able to formulate coherent thought, Rhaegar rushed forward and grabbed the man by the front of his chest plate and threw him back so he tumbled out of the tent, standing at the entryway of his tent, he glared down at the frightened soldier who was bemused to what had earned the man's ire.

"Your Grace?" Questioned the other man hesitantly.

"If either of you holds your life dear, you will leave me now," growled Rhaegar, his voice vibrating in anger. 

The men exchanged a look, unsure if whether or not they could obey, to leave the tent unguarded was unheard of, whatever their decision, he didn't wait to see them make it as he stalked back into his tent, his knees weakening with every step, till slumped onto the table, his arms outstretched on the surface bracing his weight. His eyes glassing over as tears fell onto the missives that covered the table.

Sinking to his knees, he resigned himself to the truth of Tywin Lannister's letter, the painful truth, they were gone. That night, no man in the encampment had ever heard a man of such nobility cry, but that evening, no man received so much as a wink of sleep. The pain of the Last Dragon was far too much to bear, and his shouts, curses, and pain was heard by all.

* * *

**Eddard III**

* * *

Numb to his surroundings, Eddard Stark could sense himself traversing the spiral staircase that clung to the outside of the Dornish tower, a small, bundled weight held in the crook of his arms, he had been told it was called the Tower of Joy before his arrival, but there was irony in its name as there was no joy to be found in the place of death and anguish.

_'What of Rhaegar, Ned? Does he live?' She asked, her voice trembling in fear, eyes half closed._

_'Last word I heard, he mustered his father's banners and planned to meet Robert in battle, he won't win, Lya', his men are too fresh, ours have the experience...'_

_She choked back a sob, and he yearned to comfort her, to tell her she needn't fear the man any longer. He yearned to take her pain away as she lay pale, in linen soaked red, a small pink babe, face scrunched up and nestled at her side._

Coming to a stop on a step, Eddard looked out to the red mountains that surrounded the lonely battlement, an orange sun looming overhead, casting the dull blue sky in its ominous glow. It would have been a sight to behold if he hadn't slain men he had idolized and sworn to him hadn't bled into the sand, had he not witnessed his sister's death, perishing in a pool of her own blood.

_'I'm not going to live, Ned,' she paused at the sight of him hanging his head, hiding his pain at her revelation. Weakly she placed a hand over his. 'I'll not live to raise my son, I need you, Ned...'_

_'Lya', please... stop, what are you saying? What are you saying, you can't die, not when I've just got you back! Not after father and Brandon died trying to get you back!'_

_Lyanna's eyes closed, thin trails of tears running her cheeks._

Looking at the foot of the tower and the men that lay dead there, Eddard continued on his way down, the tiny bundle in his arms beginning to writh around. His fingers dug in to ensure his grasp on the child, here he was, not yet to even hold or see his own babe he had shared with Catelyn, but carried the son of the man he had sworn to kill, the man that defiled his sister and lured his father, and brother to their deaths.

_'I never wanted anyone to die for me, not father, nor Brandon, not anyone... I'm not some possession you can take back, I can't be stolen, Ned, nor could father sell me to Baratheon as he had,' she felt a sharp pain in her chest as she saw her brother recoil from her._

_'Father didn't sell you,' refuted Eddard firmly. 'He arranged you to marry Robert, Robert who loves you, Robert who's gone to war for you, Gods, we've all gone to war for you.'_

Amidst the dead, Eddard could make out Howland Reed going from body to body, checking to see if any of the men below still held breath in their chest. But Reed's void face of emotion showed their was no hope of life.

_'Enough, Ned,' she cut him off meekly, the colour in her face draining. 'You have to take my son with you. Keep him saf--'_

_Eddard shook his head at once, cutting her off before she could finish._ _'You want me to... No, no... I won't have anything to do with that... that child, you can't ask it of me. His father tore our family apart!'_

_'It falls on you to you to mend it, repair the damage done. Take him with you, keep him safe, please Ned, he's my son, the only one I will ever bear, raise him as your own, protect him from those that would harm him.'_

_'As my own? I'm wed now, Lya', I married Catelyn Tully to honour Brandon, your boy would be my bastard, do you know the shame I'd bring our family... Gods, the shame I'd bring, Catelyn.'_

Booted feet sinking down into the Dornish sand, Eddard felt the nerves of his stomach rise in his chest as Reed shuffled forward, the man held a look of bemusement on his face as he eyed the babe, his head shaking as he looked to have realized just what the child meant. 

_'Shame? Is it shame to protect your nephew?' She choked out. 'Where is your honor, have you forgotten the value of family?'_

_He was left speechless, unable to refute her, the boy might have the Targaryen blood in his veins, but it flowed with Stark as well._

_Tears falling from her fluttering eyelids, Lyanna let_ _a moan escape her, she clutched a handful of the sheets as her head fell back to the pillow of the featherbed._

_'Lyanna!' Eddard called, he frantically took hold of her hand, squeezing it tightly. 'Don't go, you can't go!'_

_Eyes closed, Lyanna spoke barely above a whisper, her skin damp with sweat, her fair ghostly white. 'Don't forsake a child for the sins of his parents, I never wanted for anyone to die because of me, I only wanted to choose my own path, love who I thought to lov--'_

_Her words drowned to silence near the end and Eddard thought she needed to rest, regain her breath before continuing. But alas there was no forthcoming breath, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes closed, her body cold. The wailing of a baby was all that was left of Lyanna Stark's legacy._

Staring at one another for a moment that seemed to extend an eternity, Eddard could feel a lump form in his throat as Reed drew closer for a better look at the babe in his arms.

"Is it your sisters?" Questioned Howland hesitantly.

Looking down to the scrunched up pink face that peered up at him, a string of drool hanging from it toothless mouth, Eddard felt himself soften at the babes curious grey eyes, the eyes of his mother, the tight grip he held the boy in eased somewhat to more of a cradle than how he would carry a sack of oats. In the forefront of his mind, Lyanna's request resonated, her words nagging at him.

"My Lord?" Asked a worried Howland, the young man studying the face of Eddard's closely.

"It's mine," said Eddard at last, looking up to meet Howland's gaze. "The babe is mine, if anyone should ask, its what you'll tell them."

Stetching a hand up to run through his short cropped hair, Howland looked perturbed. "But, my Lord..."

"Give me your word," interjected Eddard. "Give me your word you'll tell no one of what transpired here, Howland."

"You've my word, my Lord, of course," vowed Howland quietly, his eyes closed as he ran a hand through his hair. "I take it, Lyanna she's..."

"Dead," supplied Eddard sadly, reaching out with his one free hand, he clasped it to Howland's shoulder and gave it a squeeze of confidence. "You fought at my side in Stony Sept, you fought at my side here today. I trust you, Howland. A man's word is his bond."

"A man's word is his bond," affirmed Howland surely.

Eddard gave a slight nod and released the man, over his shoulder his gaze was drawn to the top of the tower he had climbed.

"Where is it we go from here, my Lord, back North?" Asked Howland slowly.

Lingering at the foot of the tower, Eddard clenched his eyes shut, his head shaking from side to side. "Nay, not yet... Good men died here, we'll see they're buried before we part."

"Just ours?" Asked Howland.

"The Kingsguard too, they were only doing their duty, upholding their vows. I'll not leave them to the vultures," answered Eddard, he looked to where the Sword of the Morning lay face down, knife in the base of his neck from behind, Ashara's brother. "We'll ride south to Starfall once we're done here."

"House Dayne?" Questioned Howland, shifting from foot to foot.

"I'll see Dawn returned to them," answered Eddard. "A blade as fabled as that shouldn't be left to this place."

"And what of Lyanna... She deserves better than to be buried in red dirt at the place of her captivity."

"She'll not rest here, we'll wrap her in linen and take her south with us, I'll see she rests in the crypts under Winterfell with our family, where she can be at peace, by those she loved and who loved her," said Eddard, there was a gurgling sound, and he peered down to the babe. _Be near her son._

With a stiff nod, Howland made for the foot of the tower, pausing on the first step as though afraid to go any further. "Might I have a moment with her to make my peace?"

Eddard nodded, knowing the crannogman and his sister held a bond, whatever happened between them at Harrenhal uniting them as friends even after death looked to break them.

_Grief washing over him, Eddard used a wet cloth from a nearby basin to clean the cold dew sweat from his sister's brow. As she lay there, he saw the young girl he grew up with in Winterfell. His heart ached for her. Glancing to the swaddled babe that lay next to her clothed breast, Eddard knew he was lying to himself if he actually thought he could disregard Lyanna's child, in the end, it was the boy that was all that was left of her in this world and he wouldn't dishonour her._

_Placing the wet cloth back into the basin, he reached for the babe. He would protect the child, even if it meant his name and reputation was dragged through the mud, Gods willing he'd protect that boy._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split the two Eddard moments for the sake of conveying the passing of time.
> 
> I'm torn on the Rhaegar bit, seems choppy, I don't know it its the structure of it or just the overall flow, it irks me. so I may rewrite that part when I can get a free moment. 
> 
> Anywho, hopefully, it was fairly interesting, thank you for tuning in to give it a read through. 3 more chapters and I should have everything I need to be covered for the post-Trident segment of the Prelude.


	4. In the Wake of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddard travels to return Dawn. Rhaegar arrives in the capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, getting close to the prelude being done here. Four more if everything goes as planned.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has continued to give their support to this, it's been all so wonderful. So thank you all very much.

* * *

_**Prelude to A Clash of Vows** _

_**A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter Four: In the Wake of Death**

* * *

**Eddard IV**

* * *

The travel to Starfall to return House Dayne's ancestral sword was a strenuous one, one that on more than a single occasion arose the fear the babe wouldn't make it, Eddard knew not how to care for a suckling babe, he was raised by soldiers, he knew how to wield a sword, not swaddle a babe. If it were not for Howland Reed and the man having some formidable knowledge in child rearing, his nephew surely would have succumbed to the Dornish heat and hunger days ago.

So, at last, when fear had turned to dread with the thought he might be responsible for the death of Lyanna's son, he breathed a little easier when the keep of Starfall came into view. It's sandstone walls stood less inspiring when compared to the imposing tower that stood overlooking the crystal waters of the Summer Sea, any man who knew the tale of House Dayne's famed Valyrian sword, knew the tower in which it was kept, the Palestone Sword, along its great height hung several banners of bold lilac colour, a backdrop to the crisscrossing of a shooting star and Dawn, the famed blade that currently hung slung across Howland Reed's back.

"Are you certain you wish to continue, my Lord?" Asked Howland wearily, his horse swaying from side to side beneath him.

"The boy will not survive the trek North without the proper care, he needs a wet-nurse," replied Eddard, he let the reigns drop from his hand as he used the soft blanket wrapped around Lyanna's son to wipe a string of drool from the babe's mouth. "Lady Ashara will aid us."

Howland didn't seem so certain. "Even when you bring news of her brother's demise?"

"It was done in combat, she'll understand. Men perish in battle," though as Eddard spoke, his certainty wavered. "I promise you, Howland, you'll live to see the Greywater again."

"Aye, my Lord," replied Howland, still his adam's apple bobbed with a dry swallow, the saliva of his mouth seeming to have left him.

Any apprehension Eddard may have begun to have died when Starfall's iron gate abruptly ascended and a band of Horsemen flying House Dayne's banner above them rode out, a cloud of sand and dust rising in their wake. Shoulders squared, Eddard leaned back in his saddle as the men of House Dayne came skidding to a shortstop in front of them.

"Name yourselves, be you friend or foe?" Questioned the lead horseman gruffly, his voice dampened with a heavy Dornish accent, a lilac cloth wrapped about his head, a hand resting on the handle of a sword hanging at his hip.

"I am, Eddard of the House Stark, and Lord of Winterfell," answered Eddard. "I've come to speak with, Lady Ashara and return to her House Dayne's ancestral sword."

The lead horsemen's eyes widened a fraction as he took notice of the blade hung across Howland's back, the pommel of Dawn easily recognized at it poked up over Reed's shoulder. "And what of Dawn's wielder, how did the Lord of Winterfell come to have the Sword of the Morning's blade?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne fell in battle, not before he and his fellow Kingsguard slew four of my companions, he died an honorable death." Answered Eddard truthfully.

Appeased, the lead horsemen tugged on the reigns of his steed so it swiveled around towards the gate. "Follow me, Lord Stark. We shall see if the Lady of Starfall shares your sentiment to _speak."_

Sharing a sideways look with Howland, he let his focus drift to the riderless horse behind the crannogman, its reigns tied to Reed's saddle, his sister's body wrapped in linen lay over its back. Expulsing a weary sigh, Eddard dug his heels into the side of his destrier, it took off at a gallop as he trailed behind the mounted men of House Dayne, the looming keep of Starfall growing as they neared.

* * *

**Rhaegar IV**

* * *

For every two men of the City Watch stood four Lannister men behind them on guard like puppetmasters, contingents of Lannister House guard marched in their gold trimmed crimson armour through the city streets on patrol, Rhaegar doubted it was a sight any of the inhabitants of King's Landing thought they would see in their lifetime, nor did he doubt they would ever think to see the smoldering ruins of countless homes and establishments razed to the ground, he felt mournful, he had brought this upon them by asking for Tywin Lannister's assistance.

His scowl deepened as he looked up to the Red Keep and Baelor's Sept, sitting proudly on their hills, unscathed during the sacking of the capital. Two structures serving as a testament to the strength and unbreakable Targaryen dynasty.

"Its atrocious whats happened here," commented Jonothor as he rode on Rhaegar's right, a household guard from House Targaryen's seat on Dragonstone rode on the King's left flying the three-headed dragon sigil upon a tall wooden pole, behind them, a long column of crownland troops followed tiredly on foot.

Rhaegar sat silently upon his steed, he'd barely spoken since receiving Tywin's letter, the death of Elia and his children continued to haunt him since learning their fate, and though he had sought to banish his father, the news had spurned him onto bloody vengeance, but that notion was quickly put to rest when he managed the courage to finish Tywin's letter, the Lord of Casterly Rock having gone on to inform the new King that his son, Jaime, had seen fit to end his father's reign by steels end.

Steadily as they weaved their way through the streets of disgruntled peasants, Rhaegar and his accompanying host reached the gates of the Red Keep, there to meet him stood Tywin Lannister, the mans receding golden hair combed back into a neat, and orderly appearance, his hands held clasped behind his back with his face vacant of any determinable emotion. Flanking him stood close to twenty of his House Guard, and the familiar old face of Grand Maester Pycelle, yet Rhaegar's focus was directed to Tywins side, where the Warden of the West's young Kingsguard sire stood shimmering in his golden armour and white cloak, the young Knight looking to the far off distance as though ashamed to meet Rhaegar's eyes.

_Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer._

"Welcome, your Grace," greeted Tywin, his voice flat. "The throne is yours."

"Lord Tywin," returned Rhaegar simply, with ease he swung down from his destrier and strode forward to stand at Tywin's front, his father's old Hand looking uncomfortable at the sight of his disheveled appearance brought on by exhaustion and sorrow. "You've done the realm a service."

Tywin gave a slight nod to acknowledge the role he played, but not foolish enough to over glorify it so that it drew attention to the fact his Mad father, wife, and children were killed in the taking of the city.

Shifting to meet the Grand Maester as the scholarly man stepped forward with the links of chain around his neck jingling, Rhaegar gave a subtle nod. "Grand Maester."

"Your Grace," greeted Pycelle, he shuffled closer and took his hand, dropping to a knee. "I have met with the High Septon every day since you rode from the capital to meet the rebels, every day I've prayed to the Seven for your safe return!"

Rhaegar tugged his hand free from Pycelle's wrinkled grasp. "Pray tell, Grand Maester, have you received any word from my mother?"

"The Queen? Nay, your Grace," responded Pycelle, uneasily getting back to his feet. "However, a Raven from the Queen's protector arrived a fortnight ago... What was his name, it seems to have escaped me... A Ser Wyman... Nay, that's not it, Ser Wal-"

"Willem, his name is, Ser Willem," supplied Jonothor annoyed. "My brother, he's served as the Red Keep's Master-at-arms for years," he muttered additionally under his breath. _"Damned old fool."_

"Ah yes, Ser Willem!" Exclaimed Pycelle.

Hand clenched, Rhaegar resisted the urge to scold the elderly man before him with his growing impatience. "What news did, Ser Willem have to share?"

"He wrote to say he had learned of your victory at the Trident, had hoped to be here--"

"What news did he have of my mother?" Cut in Rhaegar.

Pycelle nodded, raising a finger marked with age to his lips. "The Queen is near conceiving of her babe, too weak to make the journey here it said. She shant set sail from Dragonstone until your sibling has come to the world."

Good he thought, how could he bear to look at his mother after he'd taken her husbands throne, not that there was any love between them given the torment and pain Aerys had caused her throughout the years. Still, the man was her brother and the father of her children, how could she possibly look to him in any other way but disappointment? Mayhaps she wouldn't, mayhaps he would see relief in her eyes.

He hid a scowl, forcing his mother from mind, there was still more to ponder, such as Lyanna and their babe, given the turns of the moon the child they shared was surely near its birthing day. He had lost Aegon and Rhaenys, but this child stood a beacon of hope in the darkness of death that had consumed him. This child was to be the light that redeemed him from so much death.

Turning from Tywin to Jaime, Rhaegar gritted his teeth the fleeting thought of his unborn child leaving him. "Have you not the courage to look your King in the eye, Ser Jaime?"

Nervously, the youthful Kingsguard of nearly ten-and-seven craned his neck to meet Rhaegar's gaze, the Lannister looking full of regret, even still, he had no sympathy for Jaime who had cost him the lives of his first and second born.

"Remove yourself from my presence, Ser. I care not where you take it, I care only that I do not have to bear the sight of you!" Scowled Rhaegar, he had once cared for the young lad, even went as far as to divulge in him his hope for change. But now he couldn't look at the young knight without seeing what he thought were the burnt, unrecognizable corpses of his children. Jaime Lannister served only as a reminder of his shortcomings.

"Yes, your Grace," said Jaime humbly, he made to leave, but he paused and turned back to Rhaegar with a trembling lip. "I offer my sinceres--"

"Can your words change the past, can they bring back the dead?" Interjected Rhaegar coldly, watching as Jaime shook his head slowly. "Then your offer of condolence are as worthless as your ability to uphold your orders vows."

Hanging his head once more, Jaime swept to a bow then stalked from the gate, his white cloak fluttering against his heels.

"Shall I accompany you to the throne room, your Grace?" Questioned Tywin after a moment of tense silence passed.

"The throne is of no immediate concern to me, I wish to see my late kin. Where are their bodies held?" Returned Rhaegar, his voice over lapsed with a longing to see the family he had spawned and the wife he had taken.

"Silent sisters have tended to them, they're prepared for burial upon a day of your choice. It is the third day from that of their passing, on the seventh they shou--" started Tywin, but Rhaegar tired and annoyed cut him off.

"I do not seek advice on burial customs, Lord Tywin, I have attended the funerals of many stillborn siblings, I seek to know where my wife and children are."

Straightfaced as ever, if Tywin were slighted by Rhaegar, the man didn't show it. "They rest in the crown chambers of the holdfast."

Giving a stiff nod, Rhaegar set off at once, Jonothor Darry quick to set pace after him. Tywin and his guards left in their wake.

The journey through the familiar halls of the Red Keep contained countless memories, both fond and hated. And as he climbed the steps that would take him to the royal apartments he found himself stopping on several occasions, knowing full well that every step he took brought him closer to the family his own father had ripped from the world. When he came to stand outside the door his father and mother used to reside, Rhaegar ordered Ser Jonothor to wait outside. Grabbing hold of the handle, he pushed it open and stepped inside, his legs grew weak and his heart halted its thumping.

Inside, on three different biers were no bodies, only wrapped bundles of what he could only assume was their bones and ash. Staggering his way to the first platform, a pained moan escaping him, he laid a hand upon the bundle, the smallest of the three he presumed it be Aegon, sweet, innocent Aegon. He had barely stayed to know his son before his escapade North to follow his heart, how could he have been so callous as to forsake them under his father's watch. He should have fought harder for them, sneaked them out of the capital when his father refused to let him send them to Sunspear, but he didn't, he left them to his father and now they were gone.

Collapsing to his knees, he pulled the bundle to the edge of the bier, pressing his face to it, his tears wet the wrapping and he cried for his daughters loss, he wept for the death of his son and he sobbed for Elia, a wife he could never fully find it in his heart to love as she should have been, yet paid for his foolishness all the same.

* * *

**Ashara I & Eddard V**

* * *

"Ned?" Came a soft voice, Eddard's gaze was drawn up to a balcony overhead, the gentle violet eyes and pretty face of Ashara Dayne looking down on him. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her, the dance they shared at the tourney of Harrenhal still fresh in his mind as though it were just yesterday his brother had approached her on his behalf, her hand held in his as they glided to the music, it was a moment of happiness, a simpler time. _Nothing more than the past he told himself._

"Lady Ashara," greeted Eddard. "I must profess my gratitude for receiving us. Your Dornish heat is relentless."

"Relentless to a Northman mayhaps," quipped Ashara, her eyes laid heavily on the babe in his arms. "I heard talk you sired a child with your Tully wife, is it customary in the North to bring one's child to the home of a Lady you once attempted to court?"

Red creeping across his cheeks, Eddard diverted his gaze. "Nay, it is not customary, nor do I mean you any disrespect by doing so, my Lady," he paused as he searched for words to speak. "This son is not born of Catelyn. This is..."

Ashara looked momentarily perplexed, but the answer was quick to come to her and she supplied it in a blurt. "A bastard, _'Noble Ned'_ Stark bore a bastard?"

Eddard visibly flinched the words a blemish to his honour and reputation. "Yes... He's but a few turns of the sun from the womb and in dire need of a wet-nurse to care for him."

"Where is the babe's mother, why does he not reap milk from her breast?" Asked Ashara, there was a bitter tone laced with her words.

Downcast, Eddard was silent. Thankfully, Howland Reed came to his aid, the crannogman stepping forward and pulling the slung sword from his shoulder, holding it out in offering for the Lady of Starfall to view. "We come bearing your House's sword, my Lady."

Ashara tensed as her eyes skimmed over the pommel. "When my man said you came bearing Dawn, I didn't believe him. I told him he must be mistaken."

Lifting his head once more, Eddard cleared his throat. "Dawn's rightful place is here."

"Its the manner in how you came to bring it here that troubles me so," snapped Ashara, the flash of anger quick to give way to sorrow. "What fate has my brother met?"

"He fell in battle. We buried him with his fellow Kingsguard at the foot of a tower a few days ride from here," answered Eddard. "I'm sorry for your loss, my Lady. If it brings you comfort, know Ser Arthur died with his valor and honour intact."

Ashara looked weak. "You killed him?"

"In the heat of melee," said Eddard. "He did not suffer, his death was quick."

"Are these the words you tell the families of the men who've died fighting for you in your rebellion? Does knowing their brothers, sons, and fathers faced a quick death give them comfort?" Questioned Ashara, her eyes glassy as tears looked to spill out.

"I can only pray it does," answered Eddard, while he regretted Ser Arthur Dayne's death, he wasn't ashamed to have played a hand in it. The man knew just as he did what the risks involved were for those that swung the sword.

Eyes closed, Ashara turned from the balcony. "Bring Dawn, bring the babe. Leave your companion," She instructed softly.

Eddard watched her shrewd away from the railing, his one free hand held out toward Howland which he filled with the sheathed valyrian sword. "Wait for me here. Stir no trouble."

Howland nodded, left to watch wearily as Eddard climbed the spiraling steps of Starfall's Palestone Sword to the balcony Lady Ashara had just been. Coming to the top of the landing, Eddard found himself in a rounded room that held no corners, arched windows lined the walls, stream of glorious light cascaded through the opening with soft beams of orange and yellow. In the center of the room stood a roundtable with a dozen seats with ornate carvings around it. At the heart of the table engraved was the sigil of House Dayne, Lady Ashara stood just beyond the table and chairs, her back turned to him.

"In all the ways I'd imagined I'd see you again since Harrenhal, this was not one of them," said Ashara softly.

Stepping forward, Eddard placed Dawn atop the table, Lyanna's babe beginning to squirm in his arm he nearly dropped the child.

Ashara pivoted at the sound of the commotion, her head shaking as she watched Eddard fumble the babe in his hands. Crossing the floor, she stood before him with arms extended.

Relieved, Eddard passed her the babe, watching her closely as she cradled the boy in her arms, a muffled yawn emitted the babe as its eyes fluttered closed. In the recess of his mind he wondered if this was what his life could have been had his brother not taken Ashara for his own fancy that night at Harrenhal, had Rhaegar Targaryen not gifted the tourney crown of flowers to Lyanna and abducted her after, had his father and Brandon not ventured south for her return, had he not been overcome by his pride to join Robert in his rebellion and taken Catelyn Tully for a wife to secure the Riverlands aide. Too many had not's to regret them all.

"The babe is asleep," noted Ashara, drawing Eddard back to the present. "What name have you bestowed him?"

Eddard diverted his focus to the floor. "He has no name."

"A boy with no name, its original, but it won't do, Ned," commented Ashara, despite the inward pain that had seized her with knowing her brother was lost to the hand of the man whose brother had taken her maidenhead, she stood comforted with the babe in her arms, reminding her of the child she almost had, a bastard just the same.

"I've no experience in the naming of babes," said Eddard troubled, he knew not what Lyanna would have named him, and he'd be quickly laid to rest in the crypts under Winterfell before honouring the boys vile father with a Targaryen name that would raise too many questions, he needed to keep the boy safe and hidden not draw attention to him.

"Its a name, Ned, not a decision on whether to go to war, although you seemed to have made a choice on that decision relatively quick," said Ashara softly.

Eddard's brows pulled together. "The Targaryens started this war, my allies and I simply rose to the challenge. The Mad King burned my father alive and had my brother strangle himself as he watched, the King's son abducted my sister and raped her, if you were I, would you have sat by and waited till the Targaryen's came to destroy everything else you love?"

Ashara's violet eyes flashed. "And in the end, what did you win in your war? A Tully wife, and thousands of men dying in your House's name?"

"We overthrow the Mad King, we end his reign of tyranny, that's what we'll win!" Snapped Eddard.

Silence. Ashara took a step back, a realization settling in. "You weren't at the Trident."

With a slow shake of his head, Eddard looked at her in concern. _"... You know the outcome of the battle?"_

"We received a raven from Prince Doran a fortnight ago," answered Ashara. "You and your allies were defeated. They say Prince Rhaegar met Robert Baratheon in the waters of the Trident where he bested the man."

Feeling as though he'd taken a punch to the gut, Eddard drifted to the roundtable and pulled out a chair. "Others take me, what of Robert, was he slain?"

"Rumor has it that Rhaegar took the man's head," Answered Ashara quietly, knowing that truth would pain him. "Rumor also has it that the lowborn have taken to calling the ford in which Robert fell, the Broken Ford."

"Robert's dead... The Broken Ford?" Repeated Eddard, brokenly, he rested a hand on the top of the chair to keep him upright.

"The Broken Ford for it's where Rhaegar Targaryen broke Robert's Rebellion," said Ashara, she grew sad. "To think had you known the war was lost mayhaps Arthur would still be alive."

Eddard didn't share the sentiment, he still would have killed the Sword of the Morning in victory or defeat at the trident, the man stood between him and the cries of his sister. Falling into the seat he leaned on, he did his best to try and not imagine a headless Robert.

Ashara watched him in his silence, the memory of him standing at the side of a room, to nervous to approach her to ask for a dance so he sent his brother to ask her in his stead. He was young and innocent then, the man before her now was a troubled killer, a man who had witnessed the horror of war and emerged from it more defeated than in the sense of the Iron Thrones victory.

"What word have you heard of the others, what was the fate of Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn?" Asked Eddard, his whits frayed at the thought of what it meant for them in defeat. Had the Mad King burned them already?

"Again, I've only heard rumour," replied Ashara, she shifted the sleeping babe in her arms and took a seat next to Eddard.

"I'll take a rumour, just tell me something," requested Eddard, it was as close to begging without being on his knees.

"Word is Hoster Tully and his host looked to flee to Riverrun, enroute they were come upon by the force of House Frey who was late in arriving to the battle, in an attempt to gain favour with the crown, I suppose. They captured Lord Tully and turned him over to the Prince," said Ashara.

"And Jon Arryn?" Questioned Eddard, the man was like a second father and his death was to devastating a thought to contemplate.

Ashara sat back in her chair. "He was said to have escaped but returned later that day to Rhaegar's camp of his own free will to barter the terms of the Vale's surrender."

Sighing, Eddard dragged a hand over his face. He assumed they were locked in the dungeons of the Red Keep by now, or worse.

"Don't you care to know word of your own men?" she asked.

Grudgingly, Eddard nodded, fearing their bloody end, his stomach clenched as he awaited her answer.

"They say the Northern host was the last to leave the field of battle, by that time the Prince's forces had them surrounded, they say the Prince showed mercy by taking them prisoner and not delivering them the sword."

Eddard leaned forward in his seat, his head cradled in his hands with his elbows propped up on his knees. "What am I to do?"

Ashara watched him in his despair, her heart aching for him, she loved Arthur, but her brother was dead, Brandon Stark who had caught her fancy and bore her a stillborn child was dead, and now, she had only one love left in life, one she had been blind to see. "You could stay here, with me, no one will know. You'll be safe here."

Eddard snorted a broken, desperate sound. "Safe? Do you take me for the sort to hide away? Spit on my honour as if I had none?"

"I take you for a Stark, and a Stark would run straight to King's Landing army behind him or not and lay siege to it. But you're a father now, your life isn't yours to throw away. You need to be living to raise your nameless child," Retorted Ashara her voice had raised, but it quickly lowered as she pressed tenderly on. "Starfall has more comforts than any Northern keep has, we could raise your bastard here, no other Kingdom is more accepting of bastards than Dorne... We could grow old together, here."

Lifting his head from his hands, Eddard bore the face of a man torn by a tempted offer. "If things had been different, I wish it were an option I could pursue. But I've a wife and babe awaiting me in the North, I made a vow to be faithful. I can't forsake them for my own selfish desire."

"And yet," Ashara said, her eyes flickering to the sleeping babe. "In your vow to remain faithful, you sired a bastard."

Eddard hung his head in shame, his name and infidelity were not ones he'd ever think to be associated together, but by taking Lyanna's babe as his own, infidelity would forever be associated with him. "I was taken by a moment of weakness, I've soiled the reputation of my House. But the making of one wrong decision does not justify that others be made. In my heart, I shall think I will always love you, my Lady, but it's no longer a love I can give."

With trembling lips, Ashara pulled Eddard's babe from her, offering the child back to him to take.

Grabbing hold of the lump, Eddard cringed as the babe awoke in the exchange, the swaddle of cloth around it loosening as it fought to be free from the restraining wool blanket.

Rising from her chair, Ashara with watery eyes placed a gentle hand to Eddard's cheek, her thumb caressing the stubble on his jaw. "I've a wet-nurse named, Wylla, in my service. I shall bequeath her to you, Eddard Stark, the Gods know the babe will perish before its given a name should you be its sole caregiver."

Fighting the urge to rest in her clasp, Eddard blew a breath when she withdrew her hand. "Thank you, the babe stands a chance of surviving the journey North."

 _"North?"_ Questioned Ashara. "If you go North through the mainland, the King's spies will surely find you."

"What would you suggest? I've come here on horse," returned Eddard. "I'll face the Mad King on my own, I rebelled, broke my ancestor's vow of fealty to House Targaryen. I lost. It's fair that I should face the punishment. But the babe should be brought to safety first."

" _'Noble Ned'_ the honourable fool," whispered Ashara, she turned from him and traversed to the closest window, her eyes gazing out to the glimmering waters of the summerset sea. It's glassy surface a tinted bronze from the setting sun. A thought of leaping into it crossed her mind if only to be free from the pain that gripped her heart. The loss of a child, the loss of the child's father, the loss of her brother, and the rejection of a man she thought to possibly love. Her heart was torn. "I will supply you a ship to ferry you to White Harbor. A babe, bastard or not, shouldn't suffer for his father's honour. Bring him to Winterfell, do what you will with your life after."

Eddard peered to the gurgling babe and its flailing arms, its grey eyes wide as it took in the world around it. "I don't know how to repay your generosity."

"By raising that boy as if he were of the same blood of your other child, he's already at a disadvantage if he's to have the surname Snow. Don't make it any harder for the boy."

Nodding, Eddard lets his gaze droop to the babe's grey eyes as they roamed aimlessly about as if soaking in the world. The babe reminding him of the child that awaited him at Riverrun, and the child a broken Brandon had told Eddard he had spawned in his rampant lust.

"What of your child, my Lady," he said softly, the mentioning of her child stung him to speak of, the memory of its conception bringing forward an array of emotions he had never thought to confront. That night at Harrenhal when his brother had known his affection for the woman before him yet took her as his own none the less. He had seen it as a betrayal at the time, but now he had taken Brandon's betrothed as his own, how could he possibly hold a grudge against him?

Ashara looked frozen in place when he looked back to her. Almost shocked to learn he knew of her pregnancy.

"Brandon had said you wrote a letter informing him you were with child," divulged Eddard quietly. "What of the child's fate?"

Diverting her line of sight, Ashara nibbled on her bottom lip. _"... A stillborn."_

"I'm sorry to hear it," he offered.

Ashara sighed. "Don't pity me."

Lips pursed, Eddard shook his head. "I'm not. With Brandon dead... I would have been pleased if he had left a sire behind, a piece of him still here. Despite my jealousy for him having caught your eye at Harrenhal, I still loved him."

"He wrote me back you know," she said, turning to meet his eyes. "Had said while he was joyed to know he would be a father, he could not act on it as he should. His love belonged to Catelyn Tully, and any children bore from his loins to be hers as well."

"He was to be the Lord of Winterfell," said Eddard lamely, defending his late brother.

"And a Lord cannot raise a child out of wedlock?" Questioned Ashara, she looked at the babe in his arms. "You stand as the Lord of Winterfell, yet you plan to raise your bastard."

"I'm not my brother," explained Eddard slowly.

"I wish I had seen it then at Harrenhal, mayhaps I would have saved myself the heartbreak that holds me, mayhaps save myself the tears I shed every day I wake utterly alone," she whispered, her expression hardening, her hand absently rubbing at her stomach. "I have something to ask of you."

"You've given me a ship and a wet-nurse to tend to my son, I am in your debt, my Lady," replied Eddard. "Ask me and I shall see it done."

"I've not had the courage to bury my child, I ask that you take her with you on your voyage North. Let her rest in Winterfell so she might be at peace with her father," requested Ashara.

"The remains of Brandon and my father still rest at the capital," divulged Eddard, knowing that was wishful thinking, what the Mad King had done with Brandon and his father's remains were unknown to him.

"They will be returned," Ashara said surely. "Will you fulfill me this request? Who knows if we shall see other again so I might ask it of you then."

Eddard met her gaze. "I shant refuse it."

* * *

**Rhaegar V**

* * *

Rhaegar was said to have confined himself to the crown chambers for four days, for on the fourth day it was the seventh since the Mad King had Elia and their children burned. In a closed ceremony at the Sept of Baelor, presided over by the High Septon their remains were laid to rest alongside the great Targaryen King's of old. When he emerged from the Sept still a shell of his former self, he descended Visenya's Hill and ascended Aegon's Hill to the Red Keep to sit the Iron Throne for the first time as the High Septon placed his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror's circlet crown atop his head. For a Targaryen coronation, it lacked the lavishness or subsequent celebrations of the coronations that had preceded it.

Instead, Rhaegar, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm sat perched high upon the steep mound of conquered swords that made up the throne. His tired, amethyst eyes watching as a few handmaidens crouched on their knees, scrubbing tirelessly at the scorch marks on the throne room floor. While many a Lord and Lady flocked to the capital to seek an audience with him, he disregarded them in his grief, instead, he set his focus on more immediate issues needing his tending to.

With Ser Jonothor Darry guarding the base of the throne, Rhaegar looked to Tywin Lannister and the freshly arrived Mace Tyrell, the latter of which stood just a few years older than Rhaegar himself, and seemed aloof to where he was or even why he was there. To the side of the throne room, half hidden behind one of the towering columns lurked the bald eunuch who his father had trusted unquestionably, Lord Varys to some, the spider to others.

Eyes set on Mace Tyrell, Rhaegar knew the title he planned to bestow upon the man would come back to haunt him, Mace Tyrell was far from fitting to be Hand, but for what it was worth, it was House Tyrell that answered the call when the rebels rose up. "I can not express the many thanks the crown owes your House, Lord Tyrell. Your unwavering loyalty during these past years of war has not gone unnoticed."

Stepping forward, the man nearly tripping over his own feet stumbled ungracefully forward. His face flushed red as he took a humble bow. "It's an honour to serve, your grace. My mother oft reminds me that it was your ancestor, Aegon who gave us our seat at Highgarden, we are forever in your gratitude."

"Gratitude is for the crown to express this day, my Lord," returned Rhaegar, he looked to the side and waved his hand through the air, motioning for the approach of a gaunt-looking steward with sunken eyes, and limbs as thin as twigs.

The old steward with wiry grey hair that curled around his ears who appeared from the shadows, in his cradled hands sat a red velvet cushion. The steward, aged but nimble climbed to the base of steep melted steps of the throne. A golden brooch crafted into a Hand sat atop the cushion, Mace's eyes looking to it almost hungrily.

"Approach the throne, Lord Tyrell," called Rhaegar. The stout man looking to be in his mid-twenties bound his way up the steps, his chin held high to a point that it came off pompous. "Mace of House Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South, as King, I hereby name you Hand of the King," announced Rhaegar, holding the brooch out for the man to take. "What say you, my Lord?"

Blubbering an incoherent response at first, Mace took the offered insignia. A smile stretched across his wide face. "I accept this position and vow to serve in it with the honour and grace it deserves. I shall wear this pin with pride, and every House in the Seven Kingdom's will prosp- -"

Seeing as the man looked to ramble endlessly on, Rhaegar held a hand up to silence the man. "Thank you, Lord Tyrell. That will be all. The steward here will acquaint you with your new office in the Hand's Tower."

"Ah yes," said Mace, his eyes falling expectantly to the old man still clutching the velvet cushion.

"Follow me, m'lord," grumbled the steward, the old man tucked the cushion under his arm and lead the head of House Tyrell from the throne room. When the grand doors closed behind them, Tywin took a step forward, an unimpressed look on his usually stoic, unreadable face.

_At last a showing of emotion I can read. Tywin Lannister shits gold and can feel slighted._

"Lord Tywin, I thank you for your patience in having to wait for an audience. I'm told you've shown a great eagerness to return to the Rock," began Rhaegar, he knew the man to be cunning, and even though their prior agreement could no longer be ascertained with his son's death, Tywin wasn't the sort to accept nothing for marching halfway across Westeros just to see him sit the throne.

"Patience gives time to think, your Grace, I should hope, unlike your newly named Hand seems capable of, you've done some thinking as well." Commented Tywin, the insult in regard to Mace wasn't veiled.

Sitting forward, Rhaegar nodded. "Think I have, my Lord. In light of you and your House agreeing to do me a service, in return for your House's participation, I had offered you my son and heir to wed a member of your family, one of similar age."

"Alas, the young Prince, as innocent and good of heart as I'm sure your son was, has perished, which brings us to a crossroads of our agreement."

Rhaegar had to grit his teeth, talk of his dead son was not a thing he had hoped to speak of so soon, but Tywin was right, they were at a crossroads, one in which ten thousand Lannister men-at-arms stood guard throughout King's Landing, unlike the Tully and Arryn Lord's, Tywin Lannister stood with a greater hand to play. "When the times presents itself, I shall send for my brother, Viserys and my pregnant mother from Dragonstone, for your House's service, I now offer you my brother as groom to a bride of your House when and if one should come of age."

Tywin needn't think long on the offer, his lips thinned and golden brows creased. " _I decline the Crown's proposal._ In truth, I had a different proposal in mind, your Grace."

Rhaegar's silver brows lifted, unsure if he cared to hear the man's proposal. "Speak Lord Tywin, what is your proposal?"

"My daughter, Cersei, your Grace, she is ten-and-seven, and ripe to wed. I ask in light of Princess Elia's passing, you take her as your wife," Said Tywin, the firmness in his voice nearly made Rhaegar believe it was a proposal he couldn't refuse.

Huffing a breath with Lyanna and their child at the forefront of his mind, Rhaegar sat back against the heap of protruding swords that served as the Iron Throne, his lips set in a thin line. "I grieve and mourn, Lord Tywin. It's far too soon a time to think of taking another wife while my wife and seed have just been laid to rest."

"To soon to think of who shall wear the crown after you?" Questioned Tywin tightly. "Your succession should be paramount, an heir all the more necessary."

"If that were to be true, why then have you not taken another wife, my Lord," returned Rhaegar, knowing that with Jaime as a Kingsguard, the man's heir stood to be his daughter or dwarf, both less than deserving of the Rock in a man like Tywin Lannister's eyes. "I have a counter-proposal for you."

Tywin took a tentative step closer to the steps of the throne, his interest piqued. "Your proposal, your grace?"

"I shall extend you Viserys as previously proposed, he stands to be my heir, furthermore I will release your son from his vows," offered Rhaegar, as far as he was concerned, it was pointless to have a Kingsguard, the King couldn't bear to be in the company of. What purpose did such a man serve? "You will gain not only a husband for a Lady of your House, you will regain an heir, unless of course, you prefer your younger son to take that role?"

Tywin's lips almost peeled back in a sneer at the thought of Tyrion. Almost. "I accept on the condition your brother wed my daughter when he comes of suitable age."

Rhaegar looked to do the arithmetic of age between Cersei and Viserys, the woman would still be well within the years of being able to bear child. It would not be forsaken to commit Viserys to such a wife, nor could he refuse Tywin anymore. "Let it be done, my brother betrothed to your daughter."

The stiff Lord of Casterly Rock looked pleased by the notion, whether he was disappointed in not having arranged a union between Rhaegar and his daughter, it would be naive to not acknowledge having Jaime as heir to the Rock a true triumph.

Looking down to the base of the throne, Rhaegar sought out Pycelle. "Grand Maester, find, Ser Jaime Lannister, and inform the Kingsguard I relinquish him from his vows of service."

Seemingly feeble, the aged Maester whose posture left him crooked, nodded his head earnestly. "As you command, your Grace."

Tywin bowed humbly, the thin man hasty to follow the Grand Master from the Hall and claim his prize to take back to the Westerlands.

"At last, Lord Varys," acknowledged Rhaegar when the Hall had cleared, his eyes narrowing at the bald man lurking behind a column. "Step to where I can see you, Master of Whisperers."

Tentatively, Varys crept from the shadows, his expression calm with his hands held over his burgeoning belly, the length of his sleeves hiding his fingers from sight. "You look rightfully in place upon your fathers seat, your Grace."

Rhaegar viewed the man with some distaste. "My father brought you from Essos, made you a seat on his small council. I once heard a saying during my time on Dragonstone, I believe it went _'the spider whispers_   _a_   _name and the Mad King burns_   _a_   _man.'"_

"The King burned many a men, your Grace, but I should think it was by the whispers of his own mind that implored him to do so," returned Varys.

"My father heeded the webs of information you spun him," commented Rhaegar. "It would seem I am now in need of your services."

"I serve the throne, your Grace, give me a name and I will find even their deepest, darkest secret," said Varys, his voice a tranquil notch above a whisper.

"It's not secrets I need," revealed Rhaegar, he leaned forward on the throne, the eunuch having his rapt focus. "Find me the Lord of Winterfell, find me, _Eddard Stark."_


	5. Sails in the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned makes for the North. The world around, Rhaegar continues to spiral out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Just three more chapters to go for the Prelude to be wrapped up. So, we are getting somewhere at last. I think.
> 
> A special thank you to MSquared79 for taking the time to look this over and adding all the touches that make it better.

* * *

_**Prelude to A Clash of Vows** _   


_**A Series of Broken Promises** _   


**Chapter Five: Sails in the Wind**

* * *

  **Eddard VI**

* * *

Eddard climbed the steps from the bowels of the ships lower cargo hold, a burst of radiant sunlight nearly blinding him as he laid foot on the top deck. A cloudless blue sky loomed overhead with a flock of seabirds spiralling above them, singing in off-key squawks. Blissful peace but supported by the soft swaying sounds of the water brushing against the ship’s hull.

In comparison to the night storm that attempted to tear the vessel apart, Eddard was thankful for the sun, as blinding as it was. The devastation caused by the storm, however, still lingered through the evident scars it caused, the ship's crew, once twelve men had dwindled to just eight after four had been washed overboard by the violent waves that had battered them. The rain had come hailing down like pebbles of stone, beating them relentlessly as they struggled to say afloat. Despite their torn sail that hung tattered across the ship's mast, the real horror of the storm wasn't evident till the following morning when the chaos of the night had gone and the rising sun showed the destruction.

Eddard doubted he would ever forget the memory of sailing past Dragonstone on their way north, the dark waters of Blackwater Bay lay littered with the broken, wooden scraps of many a ships hulls. The sails and banners of House Targaryen floating amongst the countless dead who bobbed like driftwood, it was presumed by the Dornish sailors that it was likely the Royal Fleet that had perished. King Aerys having known to call the great mass of ships to the Island to keep his sister-wife and children safe. Gods, what a waste of life. Men had slaughtered one another in Robert's War, but the men here that were taken by nature’s wrath? A man who died by the hand of another man died with purpose. A man washed out to sea by the battering of a storm, what was his deaths purpose?

Unbeknownst to the realm of the Seven Kingdoms or Eddard was that on that stormy night, on the lonely, volcanic rock known as Dragonstone, as the shadow of death claimed the sailors of ships across Blackwater Bay, life was given as it was taken. A beacon of light in the darkest of nights, Daenerys, the last born child of the Mad King and his sister-wife took her first breath and received the moniker, Stormborn.

"Lord Stark," called a man with a deep voice, each word clinging to a Dornish accent.

Eddard shifted to see the vessels Captain, Desmund.

"Come to bask in the light of the sun?" pressed Desmund, deeply tanned with bags that hung under his eyes. The Dornish sailor drew away from the ship's helm to speak with the Lord of Winterfell, another man in Desmund's service quick to take the stern in hand.

"Captain," returned Eddard, his gaze directed up to the cloudless sky above. "A fine day is it not."

"Consider it a blessing from the Seven for allowing us to survive that terrible storm. I've met a many a storm on the seas that sought to sink me, yet none have come as close to succeeding as that one," replied Desmund, his voice haggard. "If the Drowned God of the Iron Isles be true, he was surely bloodthirsty."

Eddard gave a brief nod, every God but the Old Gods were false to him. "How far are we from the North?"

Motioning for Eddard to follow him, Desmund went to the bannister that lined the side of the upper deck, a finger stretched out in front of him to direct the Northman's gaze to a land mass shrouded by a thick layer of mist that a ridgeline of jagged mountains peeked up over the fog. "You know that coast?"

Eddard needn't be a sailor familiar with coastlines to recognize the mountainous landscape of the Kingdom Jon Arryn had fostered him in. "It's the Vale."

"Ah, yes. I see, so you do know your coasts, Lord Stark," gushed Desmund, it was the first time Eddard had seen the man smile since the loss of his men.

"I know the Vale," corrected Eddard.

"Well then, let me give you some advice to recognize the other coasts," said Desmund. "If you find a towering titan greeting you at harbour, you're not in Westeros anymore, my friend."

Eddard nodded with a slight chuckle as Desmund departed for the ship’s helm, an elevated deck at the rear of the ship.

"You'll be back in the North by the morrow if the winds are kind!" Called Desmund over his shoulder.

Turning back to view the picturesque landscape of the Vales coastline, Eddard took notice of the wet-nurse Ashara had given in service to him. Lyanna's child nestled in her arms as she sat upon a barrel at the bottom of the mast of the ship, the splintered pole casting a long shadow over her.

Hand running along the railing as he made his way to her, Eddard stumbled to a halt as he found the babe feeding on the woman's displayed breast. His cheeks flushing beet red when she met his gaze. "My apologies!"

She giggled in amusement. "Have you never seen a woman's body, m'Lord?"

Eddard's face turned a darker shade of red. "I have, it just... Well, I was just--"

"It was a jest m'Lord," cut-in Wylla, her mirth filled smile refusing to leave her face. "You'd not have sired a babe without seeing something, I assume."

Fixating on the mast behind her, Eddard rubbed at the back of his neck. The heat of his face starting to simmer away. "How is the babe, does he fair well?"

"Besides having no name, but babe. The child takes to the sea, unlike your companion," answered Wylla softly.

Eddard's lips twitched, Howland had confined himself to the lower deck since leaving Starfall's docks. The crannogman plagued by seasickness was barely able to keep the contents of his stomach within, while a deep rooted nausea caused Reed’s vision to spin with the uncontrollable rocking of the ship about the water. It was made all the more amusing to him given that House Reed's keep was said to float upon an island in the marshes of the Neck.

"Have you given any more thought to a name?" Asked Wylla, drawing his attention. "Lady Ashara was quite intent to see it named before we parted from Starfall."

Shaking his head, Eddard looked down at the feasting child. The name ' _Rhaegar_ ' resonated within his mind, but as he suppressed the thought, a new one arose, perhaps it was as they sailed around the land that held the Eyrie did a name finally come to him. _Jon_.

Afterall, it was Jon Arryn who had been like a second father to him, the man having fostered him. The naming of children was not something that came naturally to Eddard, even on his wedding night as he lay naked in bed with his Tully wife, they discussed names they would bestow children they would bear. At the time it was nothing more than awkward small talk to distract them of the war that awaited his return, but he remembered them having settled on agreeing their firstborn son being given a name of honour, Robb. Furthermore, the name Jon was as far from any Targaryen names of old that he could recall at the moment, and as far away from House Targaryen is exactly what he hoped for the child.

"Mi'Lord?" called Wylla, startled by the distant look that had overcome him.

Eddard snapped to. "What of Jon for the boy's name?"

"Jon?" Mused Wylla thoughtfully, the name rolled off her tongue l as if digesting a new food for the first time, savouring its flavour. " _Jon Snow_."

He flinched at the bastard surname, the boy deserved better, but it wasn't something Eddard could give him without drawing attention. He had yet to even make peace for his role in the rebellion; could he truly write to the heathen, Rhaegar Targaryen and ask the man to legitimize the byproduct of Lyanna's rape as a true Stark? Would Catelyn accept it?

With a sigh that escaped him, he felt an anger at himself for having to ask questions he knew the answers to. _'Snow'_ was the best he could provide the boy. At the very least it was a name that would give the boy a connection to where he'd be raised, where he'd spend his days. It wouldn't be the Stark name, but Eddard would be damned if the world didn't know there was wolfs blood in him. "Aye, Jon Snow. The blood of the North courses through him like it did the Kings of Winter, he'll be a Snow. He'll be my son."

Wylla smiled as she brought a hand to caress the babe's smooth cheeks. "A pleasure to meet you, Jon Snow." She said tenderly.

Eddard's jaw clenched, _Gods treat him well,_   _a bastard he might be, but he's all that's left of Lya. Gods_   _I beg of you, treat him well._

* * *

**Rhaegar VI**

* * *

Fingers wound about the armrests of his seat, nails digging into the wood; Rhaegar glowered as his eyes scanned the seats littered around the long table of his Hands council chambers. Despite it having only been a fortnight since he had bestowed the esteemed position onto Highgarden's, Mace Tyrell. The halfwit of a man's first seeming order of business was to decorate his new residence rather than tend to the woes of the realm.

Banners of green and golden roses adorned the walls showcasing House Tyrell's sigil in proud display, vases filled with colourful bouquets of flowers rested in every nook, corner, and cranny of the chamber. Curtains over the open window were drawn back to allow the outside light of the sun to come cascading in the usually dim room. Did Rhaegar not know the layout of the Red Keep like the back of his own hand, he may have assumed he was in Aegon's Garden at Dragonstone rather than the tower of the Hand.

Leaving his musing to idle, he let his eyes drift back to the vacant seats of the table. He had dismissed many of his father's old advisors, men too weak to voice their opinion during Aerys’ reign, men who had stood by as his mad father destroyed the binds that held the Kingdoms together. Now his counsel consisted of just three men, Lord Commander Hightower who stood guard at the Tower of Joy, his Hand, Mace Tyrell, and Lord Varys, his Master of Whisperers.

There were many vacant positions needed filling, yet so few men of worth to fill them, only two men are particular came to mind. Jon Connington would have been a formidable voice of advice had he not been made his father's Hand and forced into exile for his defeat at Stoney Sept. A punishment Rhaegar did not find befitting of his old squire. He and Connington may have had their disagreements, but the man had been devoted, and Rhaegar needed someone to tell him no, someone to oppose him when needed so he didn't bring ruin to the Seven Kingdoms. And so the King had ordered Varys to locate the former Lord of Griffin's Roost and inform him by royal decree that he was able to return home to Westeros.

While he was yet to hear if Connington had been found, it was more likely that Varys' men were still on their voyage across the Narrow Sea. The task of locating where Connington was on the foreign continent could take several moons, that was if they found him at all.

Then there was, Willem Darry, an aged Knight who was both wise and gentle. The man had taught him the finer things of the sword in his youth and supplied him with as many beneficial teachings as Grand Maester Pycelle had, alas the Old Knight was stowed away at Dragonstone awaiting his mother, Rhaella to give birth. Willem's last raven depicted the sight of a darkening sky that approached, a precursor to a storm to come. And come the storm had. Even in King's Landing the darkened sky flashed with bolts of lightning, the rain coming down like it was the fury of the Gods. Some days had passed since then and word from Dragonstone had yet to reach the capital, but tale from fishermen of the Blackwater was already emerging as gossip in the halls of the Red Keep, whispered words of fishermen having seen debris from destroyed ships drifting in the dark water of the inlet. The man's return to King's Landing would not be soon.

With the ramblings of his mind coming to an end, Rhaegar turned back to his present company, his gaze resting Varys, the spider. The bald eunuch pulled the strings of his webs and was said to have learned many things of interest. Things yet to be revealed to the King.

"Shall we convene with the counsel, your Grace?" Questioned Mace, chin raised with pride. The pin on his chest buffed and shined so it glinted with a sparkle against the sunlight streaming through the open windows.  
Looking between Varys and Mace, Rhaegar swirled his hand through the air, beckoning his Hand to begin.

"Very well," began Mace, he paused. Brows furrowed. "What topic is there for the council to discuss?"

"You have no planned agenda, my Lord?" Inquired Varys, while his voice was flat and didn't give away his mocking of Tyrell. Rhaegar could sense it.

Tyrell blustered at the idea. "I have just assumed office, my Lord, how am I to be bothered with an agenda so soon."

"Of course, my apologies, Lord Hand," returned Varys, it was feigned but Tyrell didn't notice. "Might I suggest we discuss appointments to our table, It would seem the King's small council is truly small indeed."

"Ah, a fine suggestion, Lord Varys!" Remarked Mace, turning to Rhaegar with a smile. "I can compile a list of fine men with distinguished reputation for your review, your Grace. There is a selection of find Lords from the Shield Islands that would make for an excellent Master of Ships."

Rhaegar shook his head. "The appointments of office can wait, the realm sits in ruin, Lord Hand. I care to discuss what is being done to remedy this."

"Ruin, your Grace? The rebel lord's have sworn oaths of fealty, the war has ended with House Targaryen still upon the throne," boasted Mace as though he had single-handedly brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms. "The realm is whole once more."

"The realm is not whole, my Lord. The Lord of the North eludes the throne, as well, parts of the capital sit in ash from the sack, half the city looks as though it hopes to mimic the Dragonpit. That goes without mention of the other settlements throughout the realm broken by war," refuted Rhaegar curtly. "The realm is not whole."

Such words were enough to silence Mace Tyrell for the present. But having come to be acquainted with the man as of late, Rhaegar knew the Reachman's restraint to hold that silence would not last long. He had best use the moment to learn what he could from his Master of Whisperers. "Now, pray tell, Lord Varys, what word have you regarding the Lord of Winterfell?"

Straightening in his seat, Varys crooked his head to the side. "I've heard the whispers of many, your Grace. Though, one whisper, in particular, was of due interest."

"I don't presume to play a game of questions, my Lord. Be out with it," demanded Rhaegar.

Varys nodded, his chins crinkling under his tilted jaw. "I have received word that Eddard Stark has returned North, and summoned his wife and child from Riverrun to Winterfell."

"Returned North?" Questioned Mace with a snort. "We have patrols throughout the mainland, the Neck has been blockaded with encampments. This whispered word is false less Hoster Tully allowed his Good-son to slip through. I wouldn't put it past the old trout to have negated his oath to the throne!"

"Silence, Lord Tyrell, I beg of you," hissed Rhaegar, his hard, calculative gaze fixated on his Master of Whisperers. "Continue, Varys."

"It's been said, Lord Stark sailed to White Harbor avoiding our sentries. Whisper has it he arrived in the port town with a wet- nurse and bastard son," divulged Varys, his eyes reading Rhaegar face closely. "What is more, two crates were offloaded from the vessel that the Lord of Winterfell took with him to his keep."

A bastard son? _Two crates?_ Rhaegar wet his lips. "What of these crates you mention. Has your source any knowledge of what they contain?"

Varys sighed, his reply only coming after a long drawn out silence. "The contents of these crates are unknown, although my informer had said the crates bore the stench of death upon them. One crate fit for an adult, the other a small child."

Heart sinking, Rhaegar shook his head, the crates could contain anything... anyone. To presume otherwise without knowing would be folly. "This ship that ferried him, where did it hail from?"

"The vessel flew no banners and went by no name, though its crew were said to have resembled Dornishmen," Varys answered. "I shall say in support of the ship's Dornish origin. The last known sighting of Lord Stark was in a company of men heading south through the Reach."

Rhaegar could feel a cold sweat begin to perspire along his brow, a sick uneasy feeling clutching him like it was the vice grip of death itself.

"Your Grace?" Called Mace, summoning the King from his stupor.

"Dispatch a raven to Riverrun, Lord Hand. Deliver a message to the Lord of the North's Lady before she sets off, let her bring her husband an ultimatum to be at the Trident within the next full moon to submit fealty to the crown or stand in open rebellion against the realm," ordered Rhaegar, his mind swirled with a barrage of thoughts, none of them pleasing to imagine. "Have Lord Stark bring his wife and his sires with him, the bastard and the trueborn."

"You would have me summon the Warden of the North's Lady wife and children?" Questioned Mace confused.

"It is not a summons, it is a demand," Rhaegar corrected bitterly. He had a few choice words to call the blubbering man before him, but the opening of the chamber door and the sight of Ser Barristan cut him from the release of his lashing tongue.

With a few long strides to enter the room, Barristan dropped to a knee, the man's face stung red from the burn of the Dornish sun as a beard stark white clung to his jaw. "Pardon my intrusion, my Lords, your Grace."

Containing himself from leaping from his seat, Rhaegar stared openly at the Kingsguard while addressing his small council. "Leave us, my Lords. I have words with Ser Barristan to speak in privy."

At once Varys rose from his seat and made to leave, but Tyrell remained planted firm like a tree with its root tied deep into the earth.

"Lord Hand?" quipped Rhaegar, single silver brow cocked expectantly.

"Your Grace?" Returned Mace pleasantly.

"I request a moment with my Kingsguard. Alone," said Rhaegar firmly.

"As your Hand, I should be privy to all matters-" protested Mace, he floundered in his chair like a fish out of water when Rhaegar slammed his fist down on the table.

The usually reserved Targaryen looked truly the Last Dragon with slanted brows, narrowed eyes, and flared nostrils. "Leave us!"

Mace Tyrell bristled as he pushed out of the chair, and strolled from the room with dragged a heel in his step. Like a child having just been scolded.

With the chamber door closed and the room cleared to just himself and Barristan Selmy, Rhaegar motioned for the Knight to stand. He would have gone to personally greet the Kingsguard if it weren't for the feeling in his legs having left him. What news Selmy had brought back with him from his venture to Dorne was too worrisome.

Standing at attention, Barristan's lips thinned as he approached the small council table, his eyes directed at his feet. "Your Grace."

"Please, dispense with the formality, Ser Barristan, what word have you from Dorne, what word have you of Lyanna?" Inquired Rhaegar.

Barristan's mouth open and closed several times as though he couldn't find the words, to begin with, at last, he settled on a select four. "We were too late."

Fear taking hold, Rhaegar clutched at the collar of his doublet, the rich fabric seeming to want to strangle him at that very moment. _"Too late?"_

"We came upon the tower you had sent us to, but we were too late," murmured Barristan. "We found the tower empty. Seven shallow graves marked the red sand at the base of the tower. The bed at the top of the tower held linen drenched in dry blood."

Rhaegar released a breath, the walls seemed to be closing around him, his collar tightening on his neck like it were the device that had snuffed the life out of Brandon Stark. "She's dead... Lyanna?"

The Kingsguard huffed a breath, his eyes clenched closed. "I do not know, your Grace. Not for certain."

A glimmer of hope presented itself without her death confirmed, yet it only lasted till he remembered the shallow graves Barristan spoke of. "The dead at the foot of the tower..."

"Knowing you would want answers I had the bodies beneath the sand exhumed," answered Barristan solemnly. "Four Northmen lay rest there, their wounds suggested they were cut down in battle."

Nervously, Rhaegar waited for the man to continue, with three graves left, he could already assume those who resided there, but he needed to hear it, he needed to hear it wasn't Lyanna and their child-to-be.

"The other three graves held Lord Commander Hightower, Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur," breathed Barristan, his jaw clenched at the loss of his sworn brothers. "We did not come upon Lady Lyanna or a child."

"Bless the Seven," thanked Rhaegar. He knew sympathy should be expressed to the men who gave their lives defending the woman he loved and the child she carried, but he couldn't. Knowing the possibility they were alive was all he could register.

"There were a set of tracks we followed further south till they were lost in the sand, scattered by the wind," revealed Barristan.

"South to where?" Asked Rhaegar when he had gathered himself together.

"I wouldn't have been able to fathom a guess had we not pulled, Ser Arthur from his grave without Dawn," answered Barristan, he shook his head as though to clear the memory from thought. Besides being the greatest swordsman to have lived, Ser Arthur Dayne was well liked by his sworn brothers, if not loved. "... We travelled on to Starfall to see what could be learned."

Rhaegar sat forward. _"And?"_

"We were met with Ser Arthur's brother, freshly returned with his men from the Dornish host that marched with under Ser Lewyn to the Trident," answered Barristan gravely. "One of his House guards had informed him in his absence that Lord Stark returned Dawn to his sister, Lady Ashara..."

Taken aback when the Kingsguard turned away with tears swelling at the corners of his eyes, Rhaegar was left speechless, what had occurred at Starfall that had moved the famed Barristan the Bold to tears? "Pray tell you spoke with the Lady of Starfall, had she seen my love with him?"

"Nay, I can not say, your Grace.l I was unable to learn her account," replied Barristan. "I was told, Lady Ashara took her own life shortly after Lord Stark departed their keep. One of her handmaiden's had suggested news of what happened to Princess Elia... Gods forgive me, I nearly... My many apologies, your Grace, Elia and the children... What madness had consumed the King to do such a thing."

Closing his eyes, Rhaegar pursed his lips. Thoughts of his dead wife and children looked to ascend to grief, but he smothered it to rest, they were gone, but Lyanna. There was still hope, was there not? "We shall speak of my loved ones in due time, Ser. I plead you, my mind is frayed with concern for my Lady and expected child, finish your tale."

"As you bid," returned Barristan quietly. "They did not see Lady Lyanna in Lord Stark's company but there was a sheet of linen brought by the back of horse. It was assumed by the Dayne guards it held a body, whose body it contained was left unknown as Lord Stark took it with him by means of crate on a vessel destined for the North. While it pains me to say, with all present information I have been able to learn, I fear you must prepare for the worst."

"I see. You believe, my love, Lyanna to have perished," whispered Rhaegar, while his Valyrian blood had made given him porcelain skin, the thought of losing the one person he had truly given his heart to made him pale a ghostly white. "Gods strike me down, deliver me from this misery..."

Crossing the room, Barristan dropped to a knee at Rhaegar's side. "Give me leave once more, your Grace, I shall ride North and bring Eddard Stark to heel. If his sister lives, _if your love lives_ , I shall bring her to you. Give me leave to carry this out, your Grace. I ask this of you."

Shaking his head, Rhaegar looked from Barristan, unwilling to show the man his troubled mind. "This shant be another Duskendale, Ser Barristan, there will be no cloak and dagger rescue. I have made Lord Tyrell write a summons to Lord Stark to meet me in the Riverlands by the next moon. I shall hear the truth of the matter from his own mouth. Lord Stark's fate shall be decided on the answers he gives."

* * *

**Eddard VII**

* * *

Eddard stood a nervous, anxious wreck as he fidgeted in Winterfell's courtyard, the whole open space of if filled with servant and guard alike, even the few lowborns who held residency at Wintertown flocked to the dirt road that lead up to Winterfell's gate to see the arrival of Winterfell's newest Lady and heir to be. Banner's flying the sigils of House Stark and Tully lead the convoy of mounted guardsmen of both Houses, a horse-drawn carriage following behind, and Eddard's breath hitched at the sight of it, His eyes drawn to Wylla who stood at his side, Jon wrapped neatly in a bundle of swaddled cloth held in her arms. Mayhaps I shall tell my Lady wife the truth, spare myself her displeasure for me and the child. Could she keep such a secret quiet?

Watching the babe's eyes level off into a position of half closed, Eddard smiled at the peacefulness of Lyanna's child, safe and content in the arms of Ashara's wet nurse. The smile fell when he noticed the carriage come to a stop in front of him and his young, castellan, Vayon Poole rushed forward from the assembled crowd to open the carriage door. There was a cloak of darkness within the carriage that prohibited Eddard from laying eyes on his wife and son, his trueborn, actual son.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up as a young woman, auburn hair done up in an elegant fashion of the south stepped from the shadows, a small babe wrapped similarly to Jon clutched close to her chest. Her eyes didn't meet his and he knew immediately what had garnered her focus.

Standing as tall as he could make himself, Eddard approached the woman who should have been his elder brother's wife. Taking her hand in his own, he bent at a half to deliver a tender kiss to her knuckles. "Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Catelyn."

"Lord Eddard," she replied curtly, eyes locked on Wylla and Jon still.

"I pray the journey north was without incident," began Eddard, shivering as she turned to him with the coldest look he'd ever been on the receiving end of.

"The journey was long and exhausting. I should like to retire for the evening," said Catelyn, she hugged their child close as he tried to sneak a peek at him.

"Aye, of course," he mumbled, half turning to the waiting, Vayon Poole. "If you could show, Lady Catelyn to our quarters, Vayon."

"Aye, my Lord," said Vayon, offering Catelyn as a smile and a hand that gestured to a nearby doorway. "Just this way, my Lady."

Catelyn looked forward, not bothering to acknowledge the man who was her husband as she carried Robb forward, eyes of those in the courtyard following after her till she vanished through the door.

Releasing a breath of stilled air, Eddard dismissed the assembled crowd with a swipe of his hand through the air. The guards and servants breaking away to resume their duties, all but Wylla who came to join him at his side.

"Your wife is gorgeous, Lord Stark, such a colour of hair is amiss in Dorne," commented Wylla, readjusting Jon in her arms. "You are lucky to call such a lady your wife."

Sighing, Eddard shook his head. "It was a mistake to have had you and Jon here to greet her. To see my shame on her arrival."

Wylla's eyes narrowed at him. "Shame?" she seethed. "Your son is a gift, my Lord."

"Nay, I didn't mean it like that," shot Eddard back, he reached up and dragged a hand over his face. "Jon is not my shame. My actions to have brought him here are my shame. You have my gratitude for your caring of the boy, but I ask you keep him from sight until I may speak with my wife. Ease her into the transition of what her life is to be here."

With an exasperated sigh, Wylla nodded. "As you please, Lord Stark."

"Lord Stark!" called a voice, the Lord of Winterfell and his nephew's wet-nurse turning to see an aged Maester emerge from somewhere within the caravan from Riverrun.

"Maester Luwin," welcomed Eddard, he left Wylla's side to meet the man. "I had forgotten you rode with mineLady Wife. The boy, our son... He is healthy?"

"The little lord was born with all fingers and toes," said Luwin, a faint smile showing. "Eyes as blue as the waters that surround your Good-father's keep. Healthy and strong, a true son of the North."

"This is pleasing to hear," returned Eddard, he looked to meet Luwin's smile till he saw the man's disappear from sight. "You seemed troubled, Maester... Is there more to say?"

"Regrettably, my Lord. I have come from Riverrun with more than just your wife and son," revealed Luwin, the man's hand slipped into his baggy set of grey robes and pulled out a small scroll. "We received a raven from the capital before we departed. Written by the Hand of the King, Lord Mace Tyrell."

"Tyrell?" questioned Eddard, he tentatively reached out and took the scroll in hand. His palms grew sweaty. He had known the time to pay for his participation in Robert's Rebellion was coming, and he knew he would face it after he had gotten Jon to safety at Winterfell, he had not known it would come before he had even yet held his own son. "I take it you read its contents?"

"It was written to Lady Catelyn to give you on her arrival here," admitted Luwin. "She entrusted me to give it to you in her stead. The King's Hand demands you, your wife and your children be at the Trident where Robert fell within the next moon to treat with the King."

Growing light headed at the concept of the King requesting the presence of his immediate family, Eddard's brows furrowed. "And if I should refuse the throne?"

"You continue to stand in open rebellion," answered Luwin gravely. "The King will call his banners and march for the Neck, no doubt. Moat Cailin shant hold back all of Westeros should they come."

"A Maester giving strategy of war," quipped Eddard sarcastically. Resigned to the fact he had little option in the proposed matter at Hand, the North wouldn't withstand another with the numbers they held, most of the Lord's still held prisoner by the Throne. "Send a raven. Inform the throne I shall be there at there at the Trident to meet the Last Dragon."

* * *

**Rhaegar VII**

* * *

Planted at the steps of King’s Landing's harbour at Blackwater Bay, Rhaegar stood a sentinel, Aegon III circlet crown encircling his head, his body clothed in a black doublet and breeches, detailed motifs of swirling dragon's embroidered in red throughout the elegant piece of attire. Sun beating down overhead, Rhaegar looked to the flocked crowd around him.

On his right stood the High Septon and his entourage of Septa's, his position decorated with several banners of the seven-pointed star fluttering in the wind. On Rhaegar's left stood a crowd of eager wet-nurses hoping direly to be the one to care for his young sister, Daenerys if she took to their breast.

Behind them atop a plateau stood a line of City Watchmen holding back a crowd of onlookers, the crowd varying from the poorest of poor to the cities wealthiest, all of whom were eager to catch a glimpse of the last Targaryen's. At his front, the direction that held his most interest, Rhaegar observed with a flutter of nerves as a galley flying the thrice-headed dragon sigil of his House on its sail lowered a rowboat to the glimmering waters below, he counted each stroke of the tiny boat's oars as it neared the shoreline.

As its bottom hull skidded against the shallows of the bay, the King of the Iron Throne stepped forward with Jonothor Darry shadowing his every step.

Stiffening, Rhaegar observed a young boy with shoulder-length silver hair disembarked first. Viserys, his father's prized jewel. The brother he barely knew from his father's insistence to keep the boy stowed away from public view, a boy his father saw as less threatening to his rule as he did his heir. It was strange to think his father was for once accurate in his paranoia. In the end Rhaegar had conspired against his father, from the Martell's to numerous others, his only regret being that he hadn't done it sooner.

Crouching down so he was eye level with his weary brother, Rhaegar held a hand out. "Welcome home little brother."

Viserys eyed the extended arm with caution, the boy tentatively reaching out to grab hold of his forearm. A stiff shake ensued before Rhaegar released his sibling and stood, his eyes shifting back to the boat where a man of similar appearance to Jonothor Darry stepped off with a swaddled bundle in his arms, his face held kind features complimented by a strong jaw.

"Ser Willem," greeted Rhaegar, he sidestepped Viserys to greet the man.

"Your Grace," returned Willem, the man moved to kneel, but Rhaegar caught him by the shoulders before he could.

"Stand, Ser," instructed Rhaegar, his heart beat like a drum in his chest as he looked to the wrapped bundle in the man's arms. A parting gift from his mother before she like so many others he loved had left the living world.

Mayhaps it was the lingering excitement he had for the babe Lyanna was to bear, but he saw the bundle as a hope that in all the darkness brought by the loss of his family with Elia, and the loss of his mother, this newly born sister, Daenerys Targaryen was hope for the future. Could it be there was still life to be had in the aftermath of so much death?

"May I?" Asked Rhaegar, his arms held out to accept the babe.

With a flustered look as though he wasn't sure why he hadn't offered sooner, Willem Darry quickly placed the babe in the King's arms.

Rhaegar smiled at the sleeping babe, a few strands of silver hair already visible atop her head. With two fingers he pulled back a bit of the cloth to see the babe's face. Scrunched up and asleep.

"She's a quiet babe, barely cries," commented Willem with a half smile. "I'd have protected her with my life as your mother asked me to should it have come to that."

Rhaegar dragged his eyes from his sister to Willem. He had flirted with the idea of giving the man a seat on his small council, but it didn't make sense now, the man was the Red Keep's Master-at-arms for decades, and now the position the man deserved was already laid out in front of him as if it was one Willem Darry should have always had. "Shall we make it official then?'

"Your Grace?" Asked Willem unsurely.

"The uprising claimed many a men. The Kingsguard were not immune. Ser Willem, you have served House Targaryen faithfully for many years. Your brother speaks highly of you, and I can not think of any other man I would trust protecting my siblings than you. It is with great pride I offer you a white cloak, Ser Willem. Will you serve as a member of my Kingsguard?"

"I would be honoured, your Grace," replied Willem breathlessly, he grinned from ear to ear as his brother stepped out from behind Rhaegar and embraced him in a hug. Their armour clanking as they came together.

"Welcome to the Kingsguard, brother," Whispered Jonothor in the man's ear.

Snorting, Willem broke away with a laugh. "I should be better suited to cleaning piss pots than a Kingsguard."

"Nonsense," replied Jonothor, he gave a sturdy pat on his brother's back before retaking his place at the King's side.

Joy melting away, Willem took a tentative step toward the King. "Your Grace?"

Having been distracted by his sister, Rhaegar looked over to the man expectantly. "Ser Willem?"

"Mayhaps it isn't the time to say as I shouldn't want to dampen your reunion." began Willem slowly, he paused and looked over his shoulder to the galley still out in the Blackwater. "Your mother's remains. I've brought it here so she may have a proper burial."

Rhaegar closed his eyes. Even with foreknowing his mother having passed in labour with his sister, the mention of her body brought forward a wave of grief. How was it he had lost everything dear to him? Was this the price he was to have paid for having thought to follow his heart? He drew from his dwellings and the sister he held in his arms, taking a step forward to offer her back to Willem, the weathered Knight taking her back. "See to my mother's burial, Ser Willem. Have the High Septon preside over it. I shall pay her my respects upon my return."

"Your return?" asked Willem surprised.

"Ser Barristan and my bannermen await me at the Dragon Gate," answered Rhaegar, turning to leave. He took a deep breath to ready himself, a fear residing deep within him for whatever future Ned Stark presented him on the Riverland knolls. "I ride for the Trident once more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Rhaegar and Ned meet. Robert's Rebellion segment ends.
> 
> Leave a comment if you have the time. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you all and be safe!


	6. To Live a Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolf and Dragon at the Trident, words exchanged as a future of uncertainty and hidden truths are set in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, just two more chapters to go and the Prelude will be complete. 
> 
> Special thank you to MSquared79 for reviewing, and giving me an abundance of advice even with the amazing stories you have on the go. I highly recommend to anyone wanting to get lost in an amazing piece of fanfiction to check out her series "The North's Revenge" and what will be an epic of a story "Fires of War Burn Hot and Cold". 
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who's taken the time to leave a comment and drop a kudos. Your support is all so wonderful.

* * *

**_Prelude to A Clash of Vows_ **   


**_A Series of Broken Promises_ **

**Chapter Six: To Live a Lie**

* * *

  **Rhaegar VIII**

* * *

Shivering against the wind that rippled over the hill he stood upon, Rhaegar watched as the long grass stemming from the earth swayed in a synchronized dance. The Trident cutting through the lush grassland with a sparkle of beauty to its crystal surface looked pristine.  All the same, his gaze was directed to the shallow crossing that had come to be named the Broken Ford, the same place just moons prior he had bested Robert Baratheon.

A sigh fluttered from his thinned lips, the memory of the moment coming to him with a pained heart, remembering the battle with vivid, gory detail. The banners that had flown then, the men who carried them with pride into the thick of battle. Those same men who later lay crying for their wives and mothers as they saw what made up their innards come out. _The blood. The carnage. The Battle of the Trident._

He was jolted by unexpected surprise as he heard the rattling of plate armour at his side. The stoic form of Barristan Selmy had drawn his focus. The man looked grim, if not purposeful.

"Your Grace," began Barristan, his gaze lowered. "A scout has returned with word of House Stark's banners on the horizon."

"At last he comes," whispered Rhaegar, the muscles of his stomach tensing as he turned to the winding roadway that crept across the Riverlands. Sure enough on a crescent hill, the white fields of Stark banners appeared, carried by a series of mounted Northern troops, half a dozen by Rhaegar's count.

"Shall I fetch the prisoner, your Grace?" asked Barristan then.

"Aye," answered Rhaegar, providing his Kingsguard a tight nod, listening as the jingle of the Kingsguard's armour grew quiet as he departed.

Preparing himself for the parley to come, the King of the Seven Kingdoms climbed the short distance to be at the top of the hill he had chosen to trade words with the Lord of Winterfell. A pavilion had been erected at its peak, its canvass as black as the darkest of nights. The open-walled structure standing was surrounded by men of his House guard on Dragonstone, the thrice-headed dragon sigil of his House held in their hands as they played the role of stern sentinels.

With a simple table and a few seats set out under the pavilion's cover, Rhaegar readjusted his ivory doublet, a subconscious need to make himself more presentable to the Lord he was to meet. Waiting as the Northern progression drew closer, he found the beat of his heart match their steady pace until at last, they were directly before him and his beating heart seemingly stopped entirely. His eyes floated over the faces of the Northmen and the few women mingled amongst them.

Lyanna’s pleasant face wasn't to be found. _His gut wrenched_. The air in his lungs hissing out in a sharp whistle through gritted teeth. _Was it to be true, had she perished in the South? Had Ned Stark taken her aboard the Dornish ship back to the North? Was Ser Barristan right in his presumption of him having to stomach the worst?_

With tepid interest, he observed the young Warden of the North dismount his chestnut palfrey and handed the reins of his mount to a man with long salt and pepper whiskers that were tied into a knot at his chin. The two men exchanged a few sombre words between themselves before Stark looked off to the pavilion. Rhaegar didn't meet the man's stare, his rapt focus set on the form of two swaddled babe's in the arms of women in an open carriage a few paces behind where Ned Stark's horse stood. He had heard word of the birth of Eddard's trueborn son, and rumour of the man's sired bastard, a child in which the only speculation could suggest the mother's identity the most likely of which was believed to be Ashara Dayne, though Ser Barristan seemed adamant it wasn't to have been the late Lady Dayne.

Drifting from the shade of the pavilion, Rhaegar's legs carried him unsteadily down to the Northman who bore a pair of tired, grey eyes. The man's shoulders bulked by a thick cloak of mended fur, his dark hair pulled back from his face to a bun that rested on the back of his neck. They stood gauging one another for a long period of time until Ned Stark took his first tentative step forward, the man hastily intercepted by Ser Barristan. The weathered Kingsguard had come from seemingly nowhere, a swirl of a white cloak is all Rhaegar registered as Selmy came in between them and placed a stopping hand upon Stark's chest.

"That's far enough," warned Barristan, without an inquiry for permission,  he brought his other hand forward to roam Stark's person, no doubt looking for any weapons concealed from sight.

"Do you truly believe I've come this far south to kill the King?" Asked Eddard, his tone lingering with restrained irritation. "As my wife and child sit by for retribution if I were to have?"

When Barristan was appeased the man presented no danger, he stepped back with a void expression. He supplied no answer to the Lord of the North.

Rhaegar, however, took a keen interest in Stark's use of _'child'_. _Singular. One child_. Was it simply a mishap of the tongue, or could it be the man didn't view his bastard as his own son. _Was it something more or nothing at all?_

A cold silence filled the open air of the Riverlands, the eyes of those scattered about the knolls stared fixated on them as though they were a mummers troupe out to perform on the brisk summer’s day. Though in that silence, the whole populace of Westeros could have been assembled and been staring and Rhaegar wouldn't have noticed them. The new King was far too intent in the studious examination of Lyanna's brother; the Northman equally doing the same before he sank to bended knee.

"Your Grace," came a stern greeting, and Rhaegar looked down to view the kneeling man.

 _"Lord Stark,"_ returned Rhaegar briskly.  He viewed the man with a degree of distaste from his higher position. The only man with breath still in his lungs to have known what transpired at the Tower in Dorne. "I take it your knee is a showing of your intent to pledge your House's fealty to the throne, and the North by extension?"

"Lord Arryn sent word advising me that it was the best course. I trust his word," replied Eddard, his head remaining bowed.

"Lord Arryn is a just man," noted Rhaegar softly. "You may rise, Lord Stark."

In a swift motion of pushing off the ground, Ned had reclaimed his footing, his head held high up on his shoulders, reminding Rhaegar of the proud Northman he had met after the Trident in Ned Stark's place.

"Before we begin our deliberations, I come bearing a gift," said Rhaegar calmly. Pausing, he turned to Barristan with a nod. "The prisoner, Ser?"

Barristan gave a slight nod of acknowledgement in return before half turning and giving a wave. A moment later a few of his House guard appeared over a hill with a man bound in shackles. The clanking of linked iron chattering as they approached.

"Pray tell, Lord Stark, I'm told you know this man?" Asked Rhaegar.

Eddard was quiet as his gaze dragged over the man being hauled toward him. "I do. He is Ethan of the House Glover. He rode to the capital in my brother's company," he answered, his head shaking as the man was lead over to where they stood and made to kneel.

Rhaegar looked to Eddard, seeing the man's face flicker with sympathy for the man held in irons.

"I had thought you dead, Ethan," murmured Stark.

The chained man gave a trembling smile, his narrow face holding a scraggy hazel beard hanging from his jaw. "When the Mad King was my captor there were times I wished I were, my Lord."

Eddard sighed and looked to Rhaegar. "Your father didn't have him burned along with the others?"

"I am amiss to the reasoning that compelled my father's addled mind when he put men to his green fire.  Why he chose to spare this man's life is unknown to me, but I brought him here as a means of goodwill," replied Rhaegar.  He gave a subtle motion with a hand and one of the guards drew out a ring of keys, unlocking the man's shackles from his wrists.

"You release him without demand?" Asked Eddard curiously.

"Does goodwill have a different meaning in the North?" countered Rhaegar.

Ethan Glover looked between Stark and himself before rising to his feet, shaking his head in disbelief. _"I... I'm free?"_

"You are," confirmed Rhaegar.  The man looked to Stark who in gave the captive man a stiff nod.

"Join the progression, I will see that you're returned to Deepwood Motte," vowed Eddard, he clasped the man on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

With the mumblings of his gratitude, Glover sauntered off to the company of Northmen waiting on the roadway. Most of them looked dismayed and confused at the sight of Glover being alive.

"He seems a ghost of the man who once squired for my brother," commented Eddard, a musing voiced aloud.

"He was nearly a corpse when I took to the Red Keep and learned of his imprisonment. I saw to it he was given fair ration of food. It was more kindness than my father granted him," said Rhaegar regretfully.

Eddard looked at him, and Rhaegar could sense the dispute going on within the man's head on what to make of his choice to release Glover. Finally, Stark broke the silence with a muttering. "House Glover will rejoice with the knowing he lives."

Rhaegar sighed. As would he if he learned Lyanna and their babe lived, he tempted to use that as the opening to inquire for her well being, yet it didn't feel the right moment to broach such topic so soon. There was an inkling of hope that if he bestowed a few kind trinkets it might coax the Northman to willingly reveal the fate of his love. To coax Stark by other means was not the first option Rhaegar hoped to pursue, he had seen enough bloodshed for one lifetime.

"Do I have the same terms you gave my fellow Lords?" questioned Eddard suddenly, turning to the King with a curious stare.

Rhaegar was hesitant, his eyes flickering once more to where the man's babes sat huddled in the arms of women upon the open carriage. There was an envy in him for what the man had. While Stark had lost a father, a brother, and a sister, if Ser Barristan's insinuation of her fate were true, Rhaegar had lost more. He had lost a mother, a wife, the love of his life, and three children.  He wouldn't count his father's death in that toll. There was no loss to be found in Aerys' death, _the Mad Fool_. An anger was quick to simmer from his envy, and an irrational need for Stark to feel his loss arose.

"The North will receive a different set of terms once given to its former allies," announced Rhaegar, taking some satisfaction as the Northman's face morphed into a look of unsettled wariness. "Wounds still exist from the revolt you and your fellow Lords caused, my Lord. Wounds that need tending to if the realm shall heal."

Eddard looked perplexed as his jaw bulged at the sides, his teeth clenched tight. "And what are to be your changed terms?"

"Come, Lord Stark. Join me in the shade, let us sit and discuss," said Rhaegar.  He extended a hand behind himself, gesturing to the folding table and chairs shaded by the pavilion’s canvass.

Hesitantly, Eddard followed Rhaegar up the inclined hill to the table, taking notice of the cautious stare of Barristan Selmy who shadowed the newly crowned Targaryen King's every step.

Rhaegar sat first, clearly at ease in his position of power and knowing that Eddard had only one option but to accept whatever terms he made lest the man, and his broken Northern Kingdom face the rest of the realm sworn in servitude to the Iron Throne. For all the secrecy that surrounded Ned Stark, Rhaegar knew from Lyanna's tales of the man that her brother was both brave, and certainly not a fool to think he would not be outmatched should these negotiations dissolve to declarations of continued civil war.

Shifting in his seat, Eddard's eyes looked upward to the black canvas, waiting for Rhaegar to bring forth his terms.

"Well, I think it fitting we begin with House Frey. As I am sure you aware by now, the Frey's did the crown a service at the Trident in the capturing of your good-father when he sought to flee," commented Rhaegar, watching closely as Stark's eyes narrowed. "In exchange for peace between the Frey's and their liege Lord who they scorned, I ordered a member of House Frey be taken as a ward by Hoster Tully. I have since learned Walder Frey's roots run deep and his seed plentiful, as are the stemming roots of your own House I'm told. A trueborn and a bastard within the matter of a year, I take it?"

Eddard held back his scowl, but he nodded nonetheless. "The Old Gods have blessed me with two sons."

"Blessed indeed," concurred Rhaegar, his braided silver hair swirled as a breeze rushed through the pavilion. "I was expecting my third child..." his let his words hang, searching Eddard's face for any reaction to them.

The man's visage was void, his face set in stone. He had figured it would be enough to have the man divulge Lyanna's fate, yet it did little but make the man divert his gaze. Realizing his hope for revelation wasn't to come with ease, he decided to push on. "Oddly, I don't know the child's fate, mayhaps you do?"

Eddard's eyes narrowed. "In the raven you sent, I was under the impression we were to meet to discuss the North returning as a Kingdom of the realm."

Rhaegar held his composure, as much as it threatened to unleash itself at the man's dodging of his question. "You were spotted heading south during the battle of the Trident, Lord Stark. Do you deny this?"

"I shan't deny I wasn't present at the Trident when you slew Robert," countered Eddard.

"Then you _shan't_ deny you were seen heading south as well?" Pressed Rhaegar.

"I shan't," quipped Eddard tensely.

"For what purpose did you abandon your host at the Trident to go such way, what lay there in the south for you to have forsaken your fellow Lords?" He questioned.

Eddard's forthcoming reply was slow to reveal itself, the man's gaze shifted to the tabletop that separated them. "I had gone to claim my bastard after message reached me of his mother's passing."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "No other reason?"

The Northman's gaze lifted to meet the King's, yet he held his silence.

"It may interest you to know that I dispatched Ser Barristan to Dorne when I learned whisper of your travels," revealed Rhaegar. "The Tower of Joy in Dorne. I should expect you know this place?"

Eddard stiffened in his seat, neck twisting to look out at the river Trident. Still, no reply was given, the man's refusal had Rhaegar flexing a fist beneath the table, his nails digging into his palm.

"There were seven shallow graves found there when Ser Barristan arrived. When uncovered it was four Northmen that lay in those graves. Three men of the Kingsguard lay rest there as well, each of them good men, Lord Stark. Now tell me, what was it you came upon there after you and your men slew Ser Hightower, Dayne, and Whent?"

Jaw clenched Eddard looked away, his tongue held behind his teeth.

"Your King has asked you a question!" Snapped Barristan from behind the King's seat.

Refusing to meet Rhaegar's violet eyes, Eddard spoke, at last, sounding resigned to sadness as the words left him. "Mine men and I arrived at the tower to my sister's cries. Your Kingsguard refused to permit me entry to see her."

Rhaegar's heart seemed to have kickstarted itself as the man recounted his tale. _"And you slew them for this?"_

"I gave them fair offer to step aside.  As I had known it then, it was a time of war," defended Eddard, turning at last to meet the King's gaze, his focus drifted to Barristan. "You may mark in your book of brothers that they fought valiantly to their very end, Ser Barristan."

A disgruntled huff escaped Barristan in retort, the man's arms came up to be folded over his armour chest plate.

"And after the tower grounds sat sullied by blood, what occurred?" Asked Rhaegar, the crimes brought by the killing of the Kingsguard left to the shadows for the time being.

"I climbed the tower's steps, as my sister's cries had gone quiet by then," answered Eddard quietly. "I came upon her in a bed, a babe nestled at her side... _Both had perished before I reached them_."

A sickly feeling churned in the pit of Rhaegar's stomach, his head hanging from his shoulders. It was as is if all hope and prayers were extinguished as though it were naught but a thin flame atop a candle. He expected tears to overcome him as he absorbed the revelation, yet none came forward.  Mayhaps he had shed them all for the loses he already sufficed. He only felt an emptiness, a void having formed where his heart once held love.

In the absence of tears and coherent thought, only one thought presented itself in the haze. "What was the child, was it a lad or lass?"

Eddard looked to Rhaegar with an anger glimmering in the dark of his eyes. _"... A lass,"_ he chewed out.

Dismissing Stark's biting response, Rhaegar pondered the man's answer. _A girl_ , he thought sadly, _Visenya._ He would have been happy with either a lad or lass, but Lyanna had often spoken of hope for a boy, for it was boys who weren't tethered in restriction by gender like she had been. Swallowing a formed lump in his throat, Rhaegar returned his focus to Eddard. "What of their remains?"

"I took them both with me to Winterfell. A mother and her child gone before their time should be at peace together. They rest in my family's crypt," answered Eddard curtly.

"This is of course after you paid a visit to Starfall?" questioned Barristan from behind, the motivation behind the query was amiss to Rhaegar as he stewed in hollow sorrow.

Eddard's brows pulled together. "...Aye."

"The returning of Dawn to House Dayne, to Lady Ashara, was commendable," praised Barristan, his voice deep.

A bead of sweat formed at Eddard's hairline, it trickled down to his brow as though weary by this turn of topic. "You spoke with Lady Ashara?"

Rhaegar eyed the man before him intently, sensing the shift in his composure. _Was he nervous?_ Could it be he had made Lady Ashara privy to something he had hoped not revealed? He opened his mouth to inquire, yet his Kingsguard beat him to it.

"Nay," cut-in Barristan. "It is with a heavy heart that I learned Lady Ashara had taken her own life before I arrived."

Inwardly, Rhaegar cursed Barristan for revealing Lady Dayne's death. Had the man kept his mouth shut a few moments longer, Lord Stark might have divulged whatever it was that turned him fretful.

 _"Dead?"_ Repeated Eddard, his worried face quick to be replaced with a mixture of shock and pain. "... When?"

"I was told shortly after you had departed by boat," answered Barristan gruffly. "She was but a flower in the Dornish desert."

"Aye, that she was," agreed Eddard softly, his eyes fluttered closed. "I shall grieve her loss."

As the atmosphere of the pavilion oozed heavily of sadness, Rhaegar was the first to bring himself back in order, his mind returning to Lyanna and his daughter. "Pray tell, Lord Stark, is the tomb you laid your Lady sister and mine daughter marked with both names?"

Reaching a hand up to his face, Eddard rubbed tiredly at one of his eyes. "Their grave bears no name as is my family's tradition. Before I had left Winterfell to be here, in Lyanna's honour I commissioned a mason to make a stone effigy be made for her tomb. I've told no one of her daughter. To my bannerman who have queried and those of mine own House, Lyanna passed from a fever."

 _"A fever?"_ Snapped Rhaegar, insulted by the notion that the man intended to keep the memory of his daughter hidden, as brief of a memory as it was to have been.

Eddard nodded, his eyes meeting Rhaegar's. "Aye, a fever. And I shall stand by it to any who may inquire," he answered firmly. "I have tarnished mine House's honour by siring a bastard. Whatever thoughts you may have had for Lyanna, I care not. I ask you to let my sister lay in peace and not muddy her memory. A child born out of wedlock will only serve to sully her name in death. I ask you, your Grace, be merciful, let the dead and their secrets stay as such."

Hand clenched under the table, Rhaegar idly wondered if the man believed the rumours of him having raped his sister.  By this account it could be assumed he did. He had an inkling to tell the man he had thought to wed Lyanna, but Rhaegar ultimately knew it would serve no purpose to reveal it now. It wouldn't bring Lyanna back or stop the thousands of lives that were given in the rebellion.

It would only serve to further enrage the Martell's if they were to learn of it.  Not only had Elia been killed by his carelessness, but if they learned he had planned to dishonour their marriage and break faith to wed his northern flower, then surely, House Martell who grieved their loss of Ser Lewyn, Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys.  It could truly turn from their sombre appeasement of familial loses to his scorned enemy. One that would view him as the man who had forsaken Elia and their children to their deaths, not that he could deny such an accusation. Were he more firm, more demanding of his father he may have been able to whisk them to safety before he took command of the loyalist host. Tragically he had been solely focused on returning to Dorne to where his lady love and expected child awaited him.

"In appeasement for the many wrongs my House has done onto yours, I shall not speak a word of Lady Lyanna and our daughter," relented Rhaegar, it was a near whisper in which he spoke. With more determination, he looked over his shoulder to Barristan. "You are sworn to keep the King's secrets, are you not, Ser Barristan?"

"I am, your Grace," answered Selmy.

"Then I shall assume word of this discussion shall never be revealed to another living soul?"

"I shall take it to the Father's dining hall, your Grace." Vowed Barristan.

Rhaegar nodded and returned his gaze to Eddard, the man looked nearly as broken as he felt. "Let us resume with the terms then."

The Northman let his head bob.  However, there was a conflicted look in his pallid features that Rhaegar found curious.

"In exchange for immunity for you and your bannermen for their part in Robert Baratheon's uprising, I ask you to betroth your son and heir to the Frey's."

Eddard's eyes grew wide and his face flashed with something akin to having been slapped. "You would dishonour me by having my son wed a daughter of the Traitor Walder Frey!?"

"These are the terms I've given," Rhaegar confirmed.

"Hoster Tully is my wife's father.  It would be an insult to him and her to have my son wed the child of the man who betrayed him!" protested Eddard, he jumped to his feet and Barristan reached for the handle of his sword.

"Restrain yourself, Stark," warned Barristan.

Eddard visibly shook in anger. "I will not sit here and be dictated to who my son should wed!"

Ignoring the enraged Eddard, Rhaegar looked to Barristan. "Tell me, Ser Barristan. What was the name of the man I met of the North after the Trident?"

"Roose Bolton, your Grace." Supplied Barristan

" _Roose Bolton_ ," repeated Rhaegar, his gaze shifting back to Eddard. "He seemed a tame man, mayhaps he is better suited to be my Warden of the North."

"You would strip my House of its seat?" Snapped Eddard, a fire burned behind his steely eyes.

"Had you won the Battle of the Trident, Lord Stark, mayhaps it would be I who would have to accept your terms as you gave them, but alas it was I who proved the victor. I have been fair in my terms.  Surely you must know there is a price to pay for disloyalty. You call Lord Frey a traitor yet he did not forget his vow to my House when the time came," answered Rhaegar. "Now, do you accept the presented terms, or will the North stand alone against the realm?"

Eddard paled at the threat, his neck twisting to view his two children and Lady wife, her worry filled eyes as she peered back at him nearly had the man crumbling to his knees right there. Grudgingly, he turned back to Rhaegar. "... As Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, I accept the throne’s terms."

"I am pleased to hear as such," quipped Rhaegar softly.  Bracing himself on the table, he stood from his seat. "All that remains is you kneel and make the pledge, just as your ancestor Torrhen did to Aegon."

Lips pursed, Eddard stepped around the table and took a knee at Rhaegar's feet. There was a moment of hesitation before the man's mouth fell agape. "I, Eddard of the House Stark pledge fealty to the Iron Throne. To serve faithfully as House Targaryen's Warden of the North, and call the banner's sworn to mine House if ever called upon."

"Stand, Lord Stark. As Protector of the Realm and King of the Seven Kingdoms, I hereby absolve you and your bannermen of the crimes committed against the throne. May you find comfort and peace in the years to come," said Rhaegar.  With a shaking arm, he reached out and placed a hand on the top of Eddard's head. When he withdrew, the Northman clambered back to his feet.

"This concludes our parley?" Asked Eddard.

"Nearly," returned Rhaegar, again his gaze drifted past Ned Stark. His gaze settling on the swaddled babes. "I should hope to meet the heir of Winterfell. The child that will bring future peace."

Eddard huffed a heated breath, relenting to a stiff nod. "As it pleases, your Grace."

The two men in the company of Ser Barristan left the cover of the pavilion, descended the slope to the roadway where the Northmen knelt in Rhaegar's presence. Surprising the Targaryen King immensely at their reaction to him. Paying it no mind, he strolled passed the train of soldiers on his way to the open carriage, waiting quietly as Eddard Stark bid them to come down, the man offering them his hand as they joined them on the dirt road.

Approaching the two women with the bundled babe's in their arms, Rhaegar looked over the women. The first to meet his focus wore a scarf cloaking her dark hair, her mouth held a thin smile around a tanned complexion, her almond eyes directed to the dirt road.  The other woman, kissed by fire and a pale beauty held her head high. It wasn't too troublesome a question to know which was Stark's highborn wife and the other a lowly wet-nurse. Yet while the two women seemed unphased by his viewing of the babes, he took notice of Ned Stark standing rigidly at his side. Did the man think he meant them harm?

Putting his curiosity aside, Rhaegar took in the two infant’s faces, his gaze drawn to the babe in the wet-nurse's arms as its eyelids fluttered open. He felt himself stiffen at the set of cold grey eyes peering back at him. A shiver ran the course of his spine. They were the eyes of his dear, Lyanna. O _h sweet, Lyanna._

"... This babe shares the eyes of your family it seems, Lord Stark. What be his name?" asked Rhaegar, he stood mesmerized by the infant's gaze, unable to shift his focus away.

"Jon," supplied Eddard tensely, shifting uneasily on his feet.

 _"Snow,"_ added Catelyn coldly, her words spoken as if it would be a slight for the boy to be mistaken as a trueborn Stark.

"Jon Snow, your Grace," conceded Eddard lamely, shooting his wife a condescending glare.

"So this is to be the Bastard of Winterfell," Rhaegar noted, a sigh escaping him as he looked at the dark-haired woman who held the child. "You've the looks of Dorne in you, where is it you hail from?"

"I hail from a family of goat herders in the Red Mountains, your Grace," answered Wylla shyly.

"The Red Mountains are a distant land from here, you must have loathed the Dornish sun to heed your services in the North's cold," commented Rhaegar.  It was peculiar to him that Eddard Stark employed a Dornish wet-nurse. "Pray tell, how long have you been in the service of House Stark?"

Looking to Eddard's stoic expression, Wylla was hesitant to answer. "I've served, Lord Stark since the babe was but a few turns of the sun in the world, your Grace."

"I see," noted Rhaegar softly.

"You've yet to view my other son, your Grace," interjected Eddard, he took a step forward and gestured to Catelyn and the sleeping babe that was Robb.

With great effort, Rhaegar tore his gaze away to the slumbering child in Lady Stark's arms.  The tuft of red hair on the child's head matched his mother's. "Do all Stark children take after their mother's in appearance, my Lord?"

He watched as Eddard shook his head. "Nay, your Grace. Surely as you see from mine bastard son, the lad takes his look for mine. The eyes and dark hair are the traits of thy House."

This caused a scowl from Catelyn, her eyes narrowed at her Lord husband in displeasure.

Rhaegar forced himself to nod in acceptance, though there was a part of him that wanted to question the Lord of the North further on the matter. But to what avail? Had he not already heard the truth of the matter, would his questioning change who Ned Stark's sons were?

There was no refuting Lyanna's brother, it was surely as he said. Lyanna had birthed them a girl, and all evidence presented to him suggested the Northman spoke true. Even on the off chance the man were lying for some inconceivable reason, what proof was there to support it, the babe with its tuft of black hair and grey eyes looked undoubtedly more Stark than Targaryen.  To claim otherwise would be unsubstantiated.

Furthermore, Varys had said two crates had been offloaded from the ship that ferried Ned Stark North. _Coffins_. One fit for an adult, the other a young child. Such information only served to support Ned Stark's claim and only weaken his rampant thoughts.

With a hand at his temple, Rhaegar willed a forthcoming headache to leave him. It didn't help that his gaze had returned to Stark's bastard. The babe,  whose eyes sought to taunt him with what he imagined to have been quite similar to his dead daughter. A daughter he would never know the look of, or hear the voice of. At last the tears came, brimming at his lashes.  He turned away in haste so to hide his pain, head hung as he climbed back to the pavilion as he ordered Barristan to inform his Warden of the North their meeting was over. The Northman was free to return to his domain.

Just as Rhaegar would return to the capital, to a life of loneliness and regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, a bit of a jump in time. A new Rebellion rises.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and giving the Prelude a shot. :D
> 
> If you enjoyed, let me know your thoughts! Comments are always welcome! Have a good week everyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone. So just a heads up, this fic is to serve as a prelude to the start of my main series 'A Clash of Vows' that will be posted alongside this that will begin during the time of what would be the start of GRRM's 'A Game of Thrones'. Though as this will be an alternative universe in which Rhaegar bests Robert at the Trident, I needed to flush out how the Seven Kingdom's would evolve under Rhaegar's reign. I have a terrible habit of writing filler which is why I have made this Prelude.
> 
> Furthermore, the main story will be Jonerys focused and driven. If that's not a pairing you enjoy, I apologize. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, please drop a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed. Hope to be getting these Prelude chapter's out pretty quick in comparison to the main story, just so the pre-history is all done before things get convoluted. Until the next time, take care!


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